


Threads

by inked_in_indigo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Gen, Hogwarts slice of life, M/M, No character bashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, The Deathly Hallows, Triwizard Tournament, background politics, dogdad-goddads, slow burn applies to the ship but also to the politics, some lecarré-inspired espionage elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inked_in_indigo/pseuds/inked_in_indigo
Summary: The European community celebrates the end of a decades-long cold war between Wizarding Britain and Gellert Grindelwald's Northern Empire by bringing the Triwizard Tournament back to Hogwarts. The Ministry claims they've finally achieved peace, but Harry can see the worry lining his headmaster's tired eyes.  Dark Lord Grindelwald, the wizard directly responsible for his parents' deaths, will be coming to Hogwarts to observe the Tournament himself, and the trouble that starts to brew within Hogwarts's walls will threaten to spill over and engulf the western wizarding world in all-out war.As if this all weren’t enough to deal with, Harry also finds himself, inexplicably, the target of interest of the star of the Beauxbâtons delegation, Tom Riddle, who has refused to leave Harry alone from the moment they first locked eyes, and whom Harry swears up and down to Ron and Hermione he heardhissingto himself down in the Slytherin dungeons…[a canon-divergent timeline mishmash AU]
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Gellert Grindelwald, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 210
Kudos: 415





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Нити](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962978) by [Miss_Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Ghost/pseuds/Miss_Ghost)



> So. Welcome. This is my first attempt at plotty longfic, and I only half-know where it's going. Updates will likely fall somewhere in the every 2-3 weeks range (unless I stress-write to procrastinate real life, in which case they will probably come more quickly).
> 
> Despite the arguably rare PoVs and (hopefully) creepy tone of this opening chapter, this will be written mostly from Harry’s PoV, with some guest-narrators sprinkled throughout. This first chapter is quite tonally different from how at least the next few chapters will read, much of this due to the fact that we switch to Harry as he starts his sixth year at Hogwarts, with all the related teenage drama that entails.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

-May 14th, 1996, Daily Prophet, Evening Edition-

PEACE TREATY SIGNED—WIZARDING COLD WAR at an END

LONDON.Wizarding Britain and the Northern Empire signed a peace treaty late Tuesday night, putting an end to decades-long conflict commonly been referred to as the Wizarding Cold War.

“It is with great pride that we celebrate this occasion,” Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said in a prepared statement.“Imperator Grindelwald and I look forward to closing the door on this dark episode of magical history, and to raising the curtain on a new era of fruitful partnership between our two great nations.Our Foreign Office is committed to establishing a diplomatic strategy based on trust and cooperation.”

Preliminary negotiations are expected to continue throughout the summer, with teams of Foreign Office wizards and witches working in shifts to facilitate the transition.

Albus Dumbledore, currently on sabbatical from his position as headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and famed for almost single-handedly turning back Grindelwald’s invading forces in the decisive Battle of Ludlow of 1945 during the Great Wizarding War, was not present at the signing and could not be reached for comment.

-May 21st, 1996 Daily Prophet-

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT to be REVIVED at HOGWARTS

LONDON.After a centuries-long hiatus, the Triwizard Tournament will return to Wizarding Europe this fall.

Ministry officials have confirmed that the ancient wizarding tradition will be revived this year in commemoration of the new alliance between the Northern Empire and Wizarding Britain.A source close to Ludovic Bagman, Head of Magical Games and Sports, has confirmed that the Tournament will take place at Hogwarts, with both Beauxbâtons Academy of Magic in France and Durmstrang Institute in the Northern Empire participating.

Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said in an announcement Monday afternoon, “What better way to celebrate this new age of unity within the European wizarding community than a friendly sporting event featuring the leaders of tomorrow?”While details are

[continued at p. 6]

-The Ministry, London, early August-

Sitting in at a Triwizard Tournament committee meeting, Albus Dumbledore smiles down at the shimmer of a newly purchased bottle of magenta ink as he composes a letter to Newt Scamander.Normally, it is Minerva who attends these in his stead, but she is cashing in on the bet she won against him regarding Aberforth’s most recent goat-related experiment (red-and-gold-striped fleece this time and not, sadly, the rainbow horns Albus still refuses to give up on holding out hope for), and so Albus finds himself in the unusual position of needing to attend to the ministerial details concerning the running of his school.

Fudge is still pushing for Dementor presence on school grounds, with the meeting’s various delegates, both foreign and domestic, shifting uncomfortably or shaking their heads at his assurances that the Dementors would naturally not be allowed near the students or staff.Albus, casting an eye around the table, decides it is time for him to speak.

“I think, Cornelius,” he says softly into a convenient pause, “that given the nature and intent of this Tournament—that is, to bring our respective nations together—it would be prudent to present a more welcoming atmosphere.I can hardly imagine what our allies at Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang would think if they were to be welcomed upon British soil by prison guards.Certainly I doubt that I would appreciate such a greeting under similar circumstances.”

Murmurs of agreement sound around the table, and Albus leans back, examining a crease that has developed in the fabric of his sleeve.He spells it away, and conversation slowly resumes as Eugenia Fawley from the Office of International Magical Cooperation jumps in to voice her support for Auror surveillance in the absence of Dementors.Crouch voices his support Auror presence, Fudge concedes on the Dementors, and Albus agrees to the compromise, provided he will have the final say on which Aurors are allowed on school grounds, and only if they are absolutely barred from setting foot within the castle itself. 

“Well, if that’s all settled, then I believe we should discuss the matter of the number of champions, as well as the age limit; I understand there was some disagreement there,” Ludo Bagman says.Albus looks up, the subject one of interest to him for the first time in over an hour.

“Yes, about that,” Lucius Malfoy cuts in smoothly.“Imperator Grindelwald would like for this occasion to be memorable, of course, and increasing the number of champions would certainly be a way in which to achieve this.And while we would prefer not to trample over all the Tournament’s ancient traditions, the Imperator acknowledges that times are indeed changing, and will agree to a lower age limit of fifteen in the name of progress.”He has apparently settled comfortably into his new role on Durmstrang’s board of governors, if his even-silkier-than-usual attitude is anything to go by.

“I doubt, Lucius,” Albus says mildly, “that anything could result in this Tournament _not_ being memorable, circumstances being as they are.”Malfoy shoots him a quick look—a subtle downward twitch of the corner of his thin lips—and visibly holds himself back from saying whatever it is that is on his mind.“I will agree to two Champions per school, but I am afraid that fifteen is simply too young for a Tournament with such a high historical death rate.They ought at least be of age.”

“More contestants would of course provide greater spectacle,” agrees Egbert Offenbach, Gellert’s head diplomat at the table.“There is, after all, so much _talent_ Durmstrang has to offer, Headmaster Dumbledore, and unfortunately, our Institute being quite a bit more _discerning_ with regards to the students we admit and consequently quite a bit smaller than Hogwarts, it would greatly benefit us to have a more inclusive age limit, to, ah, how do you say it—widen the pool?We should be sorry to deprive our students of their chance to showcase their gifts.Unless, of course, you imply that Hogwarts is _incapable_ of putting forth two qualified Champions?I doubt the French have this issue.Monsieur Rabutin?”

Albus only smiles as the French delegate hastily jumps in to emphasize that Beauxbâtons has a truly _excellent_ selection of candidates among its sixth- and seventh-year students, all eager to prove themselves on the international stage, regardless of whether one or two of them is ultimately allowed to compete.He supports the broader age category, though they would be willing to compromise at sixteen.Beauxbâtons has an extraordinarily talented sixth-year who is almost certain to be selected.

“We would be willing to agree to sixteen instead of fifteen, given your support on the issue of security, Professor Dumbledore,” Offenbach says stiffly.“Well then, Mr. Crouch, Mr. Bagman?Monsieur Rabutin?”Offenbach’s eyes do not leave Albus’s.

“Well, I don’t see why not, as long as the Goblet of Fire can be convinced to release two names per school,” Fudge says quickly, despite not having been addressed.“And of course, Hogwarts is teeming with young talent these days, eh, Albus?Why, I believe that the Boy Who Lived himself will be eligible if we agree on sixteen!”He chuckles merrily.

“Whether Harry chooses to enter into such a tournament is up to him, and him alone,” Albus says sharply, raising his voice slightly for the first time.While he is almost certain that the boy would normally have no interest in competing in such a tournament for a cash prize, Albus is, by now, far too used to Harry seeking out dangerous situations in which he has no business involving himself.He holds little hope that Harry will manage to keep his nose out of the Tournament matters completely, regardless of whether or not he actually participates, but it will not do to let this on to Gellert too early on.Any time he can win from Gellert over the course of this tournament will be essential.

“So Durmstrang and Beauxbâtons both agree to two champions each, with an age limit of sixteen,” Malfoy says delicately, after a beat of silence.“Dumbledore?”

“It seems I am outvoted,” Albus acknowledges placidly, even as worry begins to gnaw at his insides.He does not see it quite yet, the threads that Gellert has laid to draw out the remaining Hallows to once again attempt to seize control of Wizarding Britain, but Albus knows they are there.If only he could just see them… 

He has passed the cloak back to Harry, and Gellert would be a fool to think at this point that it resides with the Potter heir.No, the cloak is safe.And, even on the off-chance Gellert really has lost all sense of dignity or proportion and chooses to exact revenge upon a mere boy of sixteen for magic his mother performed, Harry will be protected as long as he remains within the confines of Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place.

The stone.Albus needs to locate the stone.

He quickly makes his excuses; he does, after all, he apologizes to the room, have a school to run and a rather momentous yearlong event to prepare for.“Minerva will be in touch with the relevant parties on your end, Cornelius, Barty,” he says cordially.“Please do feel free to come by my office with any concerns; as always, you need only owl ahead.”

He turns to Malfoy and Offenbach.“Give Gellert my best, would you, Lucius, Egbert?”

He does not linger to observe their reactions.It is time to follow up on that lead regarding the Gaunts, he thinks.While they claim all manner of things with regard to their heritage, it may be time to investigate, for Gellert draws far too near, and Albus can no longer afford not to look into every possible whisper of Peverell heritage, no matter how unlikely. 

He leaves the meeting room humming.

-Paris, France, mid-August-

Merope Riddle, née Gaunt, looks around at the two-room flat she has called home for the last fourteen years, nostalgia sitting bittersweet on the back of her tongue.It was never meant to last forever, she knows, but the thought of leaving behind the life she’s built for herself and her son physically hurts like a cold ache in her chest.For all Tom has spent less and less time at home during the summers as he has grown older, Merope finds that she sees his shadow everywhere in the flat, from the neatly stacked rows of his old schoolbooks in the low sitting room bookshelf to the various tins of exotic Chinese teas he favors lining the kitchen countertop.He has already mostly finished packing up and will leave for school this very evening after dinner; as one of the students shortlisted for the Beauxbâtons delegation that will travel to Hogwarts to participate in the Triwizard Tournament, he is to compete in one last round of selections before the school year starts.She has no doubt that he will excel.

Merope once dreamed that Tom would attend Hogwarts, just as she had always wanted for herself, but Marvolo’s Howler still rings too shrilly in her ears, even fourteen years later.They would have been found had she stayed in England, and Marvolo would have taken Tom from her to raise as his own, to twist into his own rotten image, once he realized the extent of Tom’s talents.Or, perhaps, unable to see past his blood prejudices, he would simply have killed her son— _her_ boy, _hers_ , and _no one_ else’s—for simply existing, for the crime of being living proof that their great family heritage has been sullied by the blood of muggles. 

Tom is meant for great things.And so, as he travels to England come September, so will she, to ensure that her past does not interfere with his future.He will be of age in a scant four months, and she longs to watch him step out into the world and reclaim his birthright—his inheritance, his _castle_ — from those who would hold him back. 

There was a time, once, when she wanted absolutely nothing to do with her lineage—her cursed, inbred blood damning her never to deserve the only thing she ever held dear as a girl.But for Tom, she wants.Oh, does she want it all for him.She will raise him above all the unworthy, groveling sluts whoring for his attention, the hordes of—

A high pitched giggle rings up through the open kitchen window from the courtyard down below, and she glances down in time to see Tom saunter in, a girl of about his age clinging to his arm.Merope forces down the now-familiar flash of anger at the sight, taking solace in the fact that she has barely ever seen him with the same girl more than twice; this evening’s slut sports a flimsy slip of a white dress and a head of dark curls framing a fine-featured face.Tom has always liked them pretty and slender, she thinks, and feels that flash of irritation again as she watches the girl press her son up against the outer wall of one of the ground-floor flats, lean up and in towards the condescending smirk twisting Tom’s pink lips, and—

Merope turns away and slams the dish she is currently rinsing more forcefully than necessary into the drying rack.She turns to the stove instead, where the evening’s soup—chestnut—simmers gently in a cauldron, waiting to be paired with the thyme-encrusted chicken still roasting in the oven.She tastes it for salt and pepper, then adds a pinch of cinnamon.That done, she busies herself with the grilled vegetables, resolutely trying to ignore the snatches of her son’s conversation with his slut drifting up through the open window.

“— _mais tu me manqueras, tu sais, Thomas—_ ”

“— _même_ _pas certain que je sois choisi pour—_ ”

Merope wrenches the oven door open with more force than necessary, the hinges screeching.She pokes the chicken with a fork, then ever-so-carefully uses her wand to lift the juices over the bird for basting.Simple cooking spells and potion movements are about the most complicated magic she has ever been able to coax out of a wand.She shuts the oven door, and the voices float back up.

“ _Tu m’écris?_ ”

“ _J’sais pas, ça te plairait?_ ”

A giggle.“ _Mais arrête, Thomas, t’es trop cruel!_ ”

Merope storms out of the kitchen to the sitting room cabinet, where she keeps the nicer set of plates and assorted silverware.Tom’s rich baritone laughter rings up into the apartment, and Merope dashes back into the kitchen, a serving dish clutched in her hand, to peer back out the window.

Tom, leaning against the wall still, has a hand splayed against the girl's bum, the outline of his elegant fingers visible through the sheer white fabric of her dress as they kiss.His other hand cups the back of her neck, pale fingers tangled in her thick hair.

Merope squeezes her eyes shut, turns back to the stove, and sucks in a deep breath, and then another.She counts eight more before she can set the serving dish down on the counter without risking shattering it, her palms clammy, fingers white and shaking. She removes the chicken from the oven, then carefully sections the bird into pieces: drumsticks, thighs, wings, neck, breast.Plates it onto the large serving dish.Deep breath.One thing at a time.A flick of her wand, and the grilled vegetables plop over onto a second, smaller serving dish.Finally, she floats it all, soup cauldron included, over to the dining table in the sitting room, her wand hand surprisingly steady.

A faint click alerts her that Tom has finally come in, just in time for dinner, and Merope rushes into the foyer to meet him.

“W-welcome back, Tom.”Why does her voice shake?

“Mother,” Tom greets in English, voice and face both blank and nothing about him looking at all as if he has just had his hands up a girl’s skirt; his dark hair sits perfectly curled just over his brow.He is growing into such a handsome young man, his features sharp and aristocratic, so exactly like his father’s—pale limbs long and lithe, shoulders broad under the fine white linen of his shirtsleeves. 

He is the sole object of attention of every girl (and, sometimes, boy) he passes in the street; Merope has seen their heads turn to follow him down the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, and the last time she was allowed to accompany him to school, even the teachers looked upon him with unbridled admiration.The girl he was just out with will have been one of the ones from school, she knows: although he tolerates their gazes, he would never allow a muggle wench to touch him, she knows. 

She knows her son.She always knows.Her beautiful, talented boy.

Merope gestures to the small dining table, already set for the two of them, and Tom takes his seat without a second glance in her direction.She serves a piece of white meat onto her own plate and saves the dark for Tom, who, having grown up with French tastes, prefers it.The soup she ladles into a small bowl, first for him, then for her, and finally, a smattering of his favorite grilled vegetables to pair with the chicken: carrot, Brussels sprouts, asparagus.

As usual, they eat without talking, Tom reading the evening edition of the _Daily Prophet_ , which he has been having internationally floo’d over from England since news of the Triwizard Tournament broke.She watches as he brings a piece of thigh meat up to his lips, chews, and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.

“Is it good, Tom?Do you like it?”

He glances up at her briefly, his dark eyes impassive in the low light.“Yes, Mother, it is.”He takes a sip of soup, then turns the page of his paper to continue reading.

Always so polite, her beautiful boy. 

Tom flicks his wand once they’ve finished eating, and the plates and leftover food all fly neatly towards the kitchen tap, where they immediately start to clean themselves.Merope hovers, watching as Tom silently brews two cups of jasmine tea—one for himself and one for her—he is so _thoughtful_ —then packs his tea tins into his trunk and locks it.

They drink silently, Tom’s lean frame pitched idly against the kitchen counter.Light from the soft blues and pinks of the darkening sky plays against the defined planes of his face, throwing his features into sharp relief. 

Merope wants to reach out and run a hand along the ridge of his porcelain cheekbone.He has not allowed her to touch him since he first left for Beauxbâtons as a first-year.

“Tom,” she whispers, taking a step towards him, and stops short when she finds herself staring straight at the tip of his wand.Behind the pale wood, Tom’s expression remains completely blank, but his dark eyes burn with a strange intensity.Merope shivers.

“Good night, Mother,” Tom murmurs, and the tip of his wand glows with soft green light.

Merope’s vision fades to black.

—

Tom wades methodically through Merope Riddle’s memories, carefully removing all traces of himself.It is a tedious, time-consuming process, one he barely has time for, but excellent Obliviation practice nevertheless.By the time he is finished, there will be so little left of her mind that she may well be unable to function, so completely has he consumed her every waking thought from the moment he entered her life. 

Normally, magic on this scale should be impossible for someone of his age and magical experience, but Tom has been using Merope’s mind to practice Legilimency nightly since the beginning of summer.He knows the dull and disgusting nooks and crannies of it as well as he knows his Arithmancy textbooks, and so his motions are swift and decisive as he picks away all the pieces of himself.What’s left resolves itself into swathes of gaping emptiness.

He plucks out one of many memories of Merope trailing him through the shadowed streets of the eighteenth arrondissement after dark, feels the wave of her disappointment when he turns a corner and she loses him.He crushes the memory in his fingers, feeling the wisps of emotion associated with it—longing, possessiveness, helplessness—disintegrate along with the context to which it was attached.Tom wrinkles his nose.He is no stranger to want _,_ but experiencing helplessness, even secondhand, through the memories of another, leaves a poor taste in his mouth.He tugs on the thread of this memory to unearth all the ones like it, and, without a second thought, shatters the entire web.

Another memory: Merope watching him through where his bedroom door is cracked open as he writes in his diary deep into the night with only bluebell flames for company.Merope wonders if he will hurt his eyes, writing in such poor light like that.She says nothing, however; simply watches her thirteen-year-old son scratch away, the sound of quill against parchment soothing to her ears.Tom tugs the memory taut, shattering it, and grins in satisfaction as the shockwaves tear through all the others of its ilk. 

It’s slower going once he reaches the period before Beauxbâtons; he spent his days at a local muggle school, so he’d had to interact with Merope every day.But he knows his way around her mind, and with deft and patient fingers, he pulls apart all the little knots where his presence is interwoven into Merope’s psyche.Long days spent waiting for Tom to come home from school melt into listless expanses of nothing, and the countless hours spent nursing him through infanthood, then toddlerhood, he simply crushes to dust altogether.He pauses on the final memory of himself:

Merope, laying eyes on her infant son for the very first time in the dingy, poorly lit confines of a muggle orphanage in the East End of London, finds the will to live. 

Tom hesitates.Thinking quickly, he carefully disentangles the shining threads of the context of the memory from the emotional drive it provokes, watching curiously as the two refuse to part, almost as if joined at their very cores.He pulls, and a noise like silk tearing reverberates through the now-empty halls of Merope’s mind.Tom winces, his ears ringing.But the two pieces come away from each other, their jagged edges glimmering red like blood.Tom tosses the memory of the pregnancy and birth aside and grinds it to dust under the heel of his shoe.The desire to live associated with the memory he releases back into the darkness, watching as it sinks back down into her mental landscape with a weak pulse.

Tom looks dispassionately around at the practically empty expanse of Merope’s mind, surveying his handiwork.It is almost enough to make him regret not being able to stay and observe the after-effects of a memory charm on this scale, but he has more important things to be doing.

He comes back to himself in the kitchen, wipes the light sheen of sweat from his brow with a tea towel, and washes his hands in the sink.The clock on the wall shows that he was within for nearly an hour.He rinses out his own teacup, then spares a glance at Merope’s unfinished one, now completely cool after having sat abandoned for so long. 

He leaves it.

He has to get going.

They’re taking him to Hogwarts to be a Champion, after all.


	2. Chapter 1: Hogwarts Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for possible tonal whiplash vis-à-vis the previous installment, I guess?
> 
> Also, I've shifted a bunch of older students--mostly notably the twins and Cedric, though there are others--down a year to be only a year older than Harry and therefore still in school. I mean, I've already blown the timeline to bits, and I wanted to write Cedric, Fred and George into this story, so pourquoi pas?

1.1 The Hogwarts Express

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Sirius asks for the third time that morning, his hands clasped almost painfully tight around Harry’s shoulders.

“You must be starting to lose your hearing, Sirius.Or going senile,” Harry replies, trying and failing to keep the teasing edge out of his voice.

“If you enter your name into that medieval farce of a competition—”

“You’d never disown me.”Harry doesn’t quite manage not to cross his arms petulantly.“And I’ll be of age next year anyway.”

“ _Harry_.”

“I won’t put my name forward for the Triwizard Tournament and will follow every school rule with unerring diligence,” Harry drones dutifully for the third time that morning.“Except, you know, the boring ones.”He cracks a grin.Sirius punches him lightly on the shoulder.

“Write to let me know when your first Hogsmeade weekend is; I’ll come up to see you.”

“Yeah, that’ll be nice.”Harry smiles in spite of himself.It’s been three years now, but the idea that Sirius will come up and see him for any reason or no reason at all still instills a fuzzy warmth in his chest, and the thought never fails to lift his mood. 

He sees Moony regularly at school it’s true, but while both his godfathers understand and love him, Moony is the _responsible_ , _adult_ parent: the one who admonishes him for breaking rules; who encouraged him to be civil to Malfoy when he was being a prick (nowadays, it’s mostly just Uruquart about Quidditch); who confiscated the Map when he caught Harry using it to sneak firewhiskey from Hogsmeade back into school with Ron and Hermione in fourth year.( _You are fourteen—_ far _too young to be drinking this—and the cheap stuff, too!_ he had roared.)

Sirius, on the other hand, is the cool parent: the one who takes Harry out for rides on his newly tuned motorbike, the smell of engine oil stinging their noses; the one who whooped when he discovered that Harry had inherited the Map from Fred and George, and imparted a few extra tricks for using it that the twins hadn’t known about; the one who owled Harry two bottles of firewhiskey transfigured into massive rolls of parchment after Harry’s first letter to him about how horrible Dumbledore’s temporary replacement in fifth year was.(Even merely thinking her name sometimes still makes Harry see red.)

“Can you owl me firewhiskey again?” Harry asks.“Hermione says security is going to be atrocious this year due to the Tournament, so it’ll be harder to sneak out.”

“ _Don’t_ sneak off school grounds, Harry, please,” Sirius says sharply.“This year of all years.I know Dumbledore thinks Grindelwald doesn’t actually have it out for you and that he supposedly knows the Ministry’s new favorite ally well enough to judge, but…”His hands tighten painfully around Harry’s shoulders again.

“So just owl me some,” Harry begs.

Sirius nicks him on the shoulder again and ruffles his stubborn hair.“Ask a seventh-year to buy it for you,” he grumbles, releasing Harry and crossing his arms over his chest.“Not worth the earful I’d get from Moony if he heard about it.I’ll see you in October, pup.”

“See you, Sirius,” Harry says, smiling, and boards the Hogwarts Express.

—

Ron and Hermione are already in a compartment with Ginny and Neville, a colorful assortment of trinkets from Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes arranged on the floor.Harry greets them all in turn, then raises his eyebrows at the mess. 

“Is all this what Fred and George were whispering to you about last night after dinner?” he asks Ron.

“Yeah, you should really see some of this stuff, Harry; they’ve been going nuts inventing all summer.I wanted to show you last night at dinner, but you know Mum…”

Harry nods, the beginning of Sirius and Molly’s only-barely-averted row still sitting uncomfortably in the back of his mind.

“Anyway,” Ron continues, “they’re even talking about just abandoning their N.E.W.T.s—” (Hermione snorts _very_ pointedly from where she’s buried behind an Ancient Runes textbook) “—and just renting some space in Diagon Alley in time for the Christmas hols shopping season.”He holds out what looks to be a sweet wrapped in violently pink paper.“Here, want to try one?”

“Have they finally found themselves an investor, then?”Harry asks, cautiously taking a corner of the wrapper between just the tips of his thumb and forefinger.

“Seems like it, though I can’t think who.”

Harry mulls this over and carefully considers whether or not to reply.He’s pretty sure he knows exactly who Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes’s mysterious benefactor is, but Mrs. Weasley and Sirius have already been prickly enough around each other recently that Harry is positive he doesn’t want Sirius’s extracurricular spending habits getting out any time soon.He starts to twist open the crinkly neon pink paper.

“Oh, wait, Harry, not that one!” Ginny exclaims.He looks up at her, the wrapping around the sweet pulled taut.“I think that’s a Saturating Sirop—George was telling me it dyes every part of the skin it touches the color of the wrapper for two weeks.”

Harry hastily drops the sweet onto the nearest seat.“The wrapper doesn’t, though, right?”He examines his fingers, which remain blissfully Harry-colored.He shoots a dirty look at Ron, who merely shrugs in apology.

The compartment door slides open again to admit Luna Lovegood.“Good morning,” she singsongs dreamily.“What an absolutely lovely moon frog you’ve got in your hair, Harry.”She greets each of them serenely and seats herself next to Neville.She then promptly picks up the sweet Harry only just dropped, unwraps it, and pops it into her mouth.

“Hey, Luna,” Harry says weakly.

“Well,” declares Ginny after giving Luna a quick hug, “I’m going go find Dean now,” and she shoots a challenging glare in Ron’s direction before standing up and striding haughtily out of the room.

Ron rolls his eyes at Harry.“I think she might actually just be dating him to piss me off at this rate,” he confides morosely.

Harry laughs.“Yeah?What makes you say that?”He picks up a cauldron cake and settles in for the ride.

—

The train has almost reached Hogsmeade, the sky practically dark, when Cedric Diggory comes by.

“Hi, Potter!”

Harry looks up from his copy of Quidditch Weekly to find the boy he considers his Quidditch rival grinning broadly down at him from the open compartment door, a shiny Head Boy badge pinned to the front of his robes.He holds out a hand, which Harry readily shakes as Cedric nods at the rest of members of their compartment; they already all know each other from the DA, of course.Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Luna stick a neon-pink tongue out and give a jaunty wave with an equally pink hand, and he inwardly grimaces in embarrassment.

Cedric seems to take this all in stride, though, and asks politely about the twins’ latest inventions, and then blushes.“Or maybe, don’t tell me too much,” he hastily adds, “I’m probably supposed to be confiscating this stuff as soon as we get off the train…”

“What, don’t be shy, Diggory!”With eerie timing, Fred and George (impossible to tell which of them it was who spoke) pop up on either side of Cedric.They each swing an arm over his shoulders, effectively caging him in.

“Here to apologize again for the default last term?” Fred asks.

“We’ll even cut you a discount for our newest lineup of Skiving Snackboxes if you publicly acknowledge we would’ve trounced your sorry arses,” George says sweetly.

“We’ve managed one that completely replicates the symptoms of a muggle disease called whooping cough,” Fred continues proudly.

“Nasty bugger.Hacked so hard I cracked a rib,” George adds, winking.

Cedric looks torn between horror and fascination, clearly unsure if he’s meant to believe these tales, when a particularly put-upon sigh cuts off their campaign.

“Cedric is _Head Boy_ this year,” Hermione says pointedly from where she’s ensconced herself next to the window.She emphasizes the title as if it automatically means head boys shouldn’t be allowed to have fun.Her eyes dart over to Cedric briefly, a light flush dusting her cheeks before she forges bravely on.“You can’t just bribe him with your knick-knacks when they’ve been declared _contraband._ ”

“That was last year, and it was declared contraband by _Umbridge_ , sweet Hermione,” Fred corrects, impatience lacing his tone. 

“Good ol’ Dumbles is a lot more appreciative of our genius, eh, Fred?”George supplies, grinning.

“But have you heard yet, Potter?” Cedric asks, deftly extricating himself from under the twins’ arms in their moment of distraction as they bicker with Hermione.At Harry’s questioning look, Cedric’s easy grin widens.“We’re getting a rematch.For last year’s final,” he whispers conspiratorially.

“What, really?” Harry says.

“I don’t think it’s official yet, but yeah, it’ll be early, before the season properly starts.For the match we never got to play at the end of last term—which I’m still upset about, honestly.”His brows pull down into a frown.“Umbridge really should have banned all of us DA members from Quidditch or none at all.I expect McGonagall will tell you more about it when you get back to school.You’re Captain this year, yeah?”

“Yep,” Harry replies, popping the _p_ , and shares a grin with Ron.Neither Angelina nor Katie wants the responsibility during their N.E.W.T. year, while Fred and George waved it off, citing ‘more important business matters.’As a first-year recruit, Harry’s been on the team for as long as any of them.

“Great.We can discuss coordinating practice schedules after we settle back into term to ensure each team gets enough practice time, then.”He grins again, the expression lighting up his tanned face.Harry wonders where he spent his summer break.“I’ll see you around, Potter.”And with a wink, he’s gone.

“Merlin, what a stuck-up prick,” George says.

“What?” Harry asks, genuinely confused. “No, he isn’t.”Cedric Diggory is definitely Harry’s favorite non-Gryffindor Quidditch captain, if nothing else.

Fred glances askance at him, expression half betrayed, half pitying.“Of course _you_ wouldn’t think so…”

The twins stalk off together, snickering.

1.2 Back to School

As the Sorting proceeds in the background, Harry’s eyes drift over to the head table.Dumbledore looks cheerful, attentively watching the first years tremble and stumble their way to their new house-families, but the lines around his eyes and framing his mouth are even deeper now than they were when Harry last saw him at the beginning of summer.He had dropped into Grimmauld Place for an Order meeting, a scant few hours before the first news of the armistice started to hit the wireless, and in that glimpse Harry had caught of him, white beard shining and blue eyes blazing, Harry had thought, _this is what he left Hogwarts for an entire year for:_ _he’s going to defeat Grindelwald now, once and for all. He’s going win us this war._

It isn’t quite what happened, of course.Something gone wrong on the Ministry end, or something like it, and from what Harry has managed to glean through inventive use of Extendable Ears and other dubious methods, the operation that was intended to flush Grindelwald out once and for all instead ended in a hastily negotiated and even more hastily signed peace treaty, which the Prophet lost no time in holding up as a crowning achievement of diplomacy.Harry has been working hard all summer to cajole the full story out of Sirius, who, in addition to being more lax about rules, also happens to be the more loose-lipped of his adoptive fathers when it comes to Order Business.But Harry’s efforts have thus far only met with Sirius’s particular brand of sullen brooding.

Harry tunes in and out as Dumbledore touches on the Triwizard Tournament and provides basic logistical details regarding the visiting schools, Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang.Harry doesn’t know much about the French wizarding school, but Durmstrang is famously Grindelwald’s recruiting ground for dark wizards.The incontestable proof, in Harry’s eyes, is that Durmstrang is where Malfoy transferred after his father discovered Dumbledore was planning to (and ultimately did indeed) hire a _werewolf_ to teach Defence.The thought of the Malfoys’ prejudice still rankles if Harry lingers on it, but in the end, he agrees with Ron and Hermione on this one.

 _Good riddance, I say, 'specially since they took_ Snape _with them_ , was Ron’s reaction when he heard.

 _Ron’s right, Harry_ , _we’ll all be better off with Malfoy and his interfering_ father _gone_ , Hermione said.

Harry finishes the rest of the welcome feast in relative silence, thoughts of Grindelwald, Dumbledore, and the Triwizard Tournament circling around in his head like moths around a flame.

—

McGonagall gathers the Quidditch team in the common room that night.

“Because of the Triwizard Tournament, Quidditch is, I regret to inform you all, cancelled for the upcoming year.”

“ _WHAT?_ ”

“Please settle down, Potter.”

“But Professor McGonagall—”

“They can’t cancel _Quidditch_!”

“Professor, this is totally outra—”

“ _Weasley_!” McGonagall barks, conveniently addressing all three dissenters in one fell swoop.Fred, George, and Ginny all stop talking at once, their mouths snapping shut so hard Harry hears teeth click.

“We will not have a traditional Quidditch season, I’m afraid, but all is not lost.The school will host an exhibition match to welcome the other schools at the very beginning of October.”

This must be what Cedric mentioned on the train, Harry thinks.

“An exhibition match?”Angelina Johnson repeats hesitantly.

“Yes, Johnson.The Ministry has deemed it appropriate that Hogwarts celebrate the newly revived sporting competition with another sporting event.As such, the two finalists for last year’s Cup, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, will play a match for the visiting students—to welcome them to the United Kingdom, so to speak.”

“Will there be house points at stake?” Ginny asks.

“Naturally,” McGonagall sniffs.She turns to Harry, her usual severity bordering on frightening.“I expect you to keep yourself _out_ of trouble until match time, Potter.If you find a way to get yourself banned from Quidditch _yet again…_ ” she trails off threateningly.

Gryffindor had ended up losing the cup the previous year after Umbridge busted the DA and subsequently banned all the Gryffindor participants from Quidditch in addition to the detentions that lasted through the end of term.Hufflepuff had won the match by default, given that there hadn’t been a single Gryffindor on the team who was not also a member of the DA.Even now, the memory of Umbridge’s terrified expression in the face of a horde of centaurs only does a little to dull the stingin Harry’s chest at that missed chance.

“Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t keep me from playing, would he?” Harry tries, not quite meeting McGonagall’s eye.He catches Fred and George’s instead; they wink in magical-twin unison.It’s common knowledge by now that Dumbledore has let Harry get away with more expulsion-worthy bullshit than any other student, at least during their time here.Harry has admittedly never tried to sic a werewolf on anyone, though, so Sirius might still hold the trophy for that.

“Perhaps, but you should not expect that kind of lenience from the _rest_ of the faculty, Potter,” McGonagall replies, her tone chilling.“Any questions?” she adds, addressing the group at large.“Good.Curfew is in one hour.”And she sweeps out of the common room.

“A rematch,” Katie comments thoughtfully; not having been in their compartment on the train, she is hearing this news for the first time.

“Ooooh,” croons George.“Diggory’s the only one who’s ever gotten one over on Harry as Seeker, isn’t he?This is your last chance to assert your superiority as Seeker before the shiny Head Boy goes on and graduates.”

Harry thinks on this and realizes that it’s true.The only time he’s ever been on the field and not caught the Snitch was when Dementors stormed the field in his third year, and Cedric had caught the Snitch while Harry was busy plummeting off his broom to almost-certain death.

“So this is to be the swan song of Harry and the Weasleys—” Fred begins.

“ _Fred_ ,” interjects Angelina warningly.

“Johnson and Bell,” George amends immediately.“Johnson and Bell, featuring a gaggle of gingers—”

“—and some virgin git with perpetual sex hair.Truly a legend to be passed down for generations,” Fred finishes, snickering, over Harry’s squawked “ _HEY!”_

Angelina and Ginny smirk as one and immediately reach out to mess up Harry’s hair further, and Harry heatedly bats their hands away as Katie backs off, pleading a need to revise for the next day’s back-to-school Arithmancy assessment.

“Child abuse, that is,” Ron mutters looking after her, horrified, as Fred and George shake their heads sadly.

Harry shakes himself off.“Yeah, we’d better win this,” he says, voice steely.“Your last game at Hogwarts is going to be the one where we crush Diggory once and for all.” 

No hard feelings against Cedric, of course (it really is incredibly hard to dislike the boy and his overly earnest smile, as much as Harry has tried to find some excuse to do so), but Harry would be lying to himself if he were to say that he doesn’t feel a little sore about his track record against the Cedric DIggory-led Hufflepuff team.

—

“So, Malfoy,” Ron begins grimly, once the rest of the Quidditch team has dispersed.They are ensconced away into one of their favorite nooks by the fire.

“Malfoy?”Harry asks, jerking his head up.“He’s gone.We’re never going to have to see him again.Please don’t bring him up.”

“He might be back this year,” Hermione elaborates.

“What?” Harry snaps, annoyed, looking between his two friends.

“Well, he transferred to Durmstrang when his dad found out Dumbledore was hiring Lupin, didn’t he?”Ron pauses meaningfully, and when Harry continues to stare dumbly, Ron emphasizes, “ _Durmstrang_ , Harry.You know, Grindelwald’s breeding ground for Dark Wizards?The one coming to England for the Triwizard Tournament?”

The words settle in.“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry swears, with feeling.“Wait…Is an entire school of Grindelwald’s dark minions-in-training coming to Hogwarts for the tournament?”He and Ron both automatically look to Hermione.

“No, I can’t imagine that the entire school would be coming,” she replies, brow slightly furrowed as she thinks it through.“That would just be too impractical, wouldn’t it?I mean, they’d have to bring over all their teachers, as well as provide living quarters and staff for several hundred students.Not even Hogwarts would be equipped to provide for so many extra bodies.And the house-elves here are already—”

“So they’ll only be a small group, then, is what you’re saying,” Ron cuts in quickly, before Hermione can really get started on S.P.E.W.Hermione shoots him a dirty look, but lets it go and nods.

“Doesn’t matter how small the Durmstrang delegation is if it means we’ll be seeing that git strutting around here all this year pretending as if he simultaneously owns yet is too good for this place,” Harry mutters.“But he might not even come, if it’s just a small group.Maybe the schools select the champions, and they just show up, you know?”

“No, it makes more sense for him to show up,” Ron says, scratching his chin.“Both Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang are supposedly coming here as part of an exercise in international magical cooperation, so as long as it isn’t just the selected champions who come, it would make sense for Malfoy to be here.As someone from an old English Pureblood family receiving an education in a foreign ally nation.International solidarity and all that.”He waves his hand vaguely, as if that helps explain it.

“You know what bothers me,” Hermione says slowly, “is this: how can a tournament like this be fair if Grindelwald has Durmstrang teaching all its students dark magic when we weren’t even allowed to view pensieve-memory demonstrations until fifth year?”

“Never mind that,” Harry interjects hotly, “how the _fuck_ is any of this even happening at all?Dumbledore and Grindelwald are practically arch-nemeses!I can’t believe he’s really allowing _Durmstrang_ to come into _his school_.”

“It’s all politics,” Hermione says tiredly; they’ve had versions of this conversation multiple times over the summer, but Harry still refuses to believe that this is actually the state of things.“The entire Ministry and Hogwarts board of governors have signed off on this, and we’re supposed to be marching proudly into a new age of wizarding history.”

“ _I know—_ ”Harry starts to say, but Hermione cuts him off.

“Grindelwald signed a peace treaty at a summit that _Dumbledore_ didn’t show up to, Harry.Not to mention, he’s also been playing his cards right with the Ministry, sending diplomatic gifts and proposing exchange programs and all sorts of other things.”

“He has?”

“This is why you really need to read the _Prophet_ more closely, Harry,” Ron says seriously, in a passable approximation of Hermione’s voice.Hermione purses her lips at him, unimpressed, and Harry manages to crack a small smile. 

“Dumbledore’s hands are tied here…” Hermione trails off, face taking on a worried cast.“Harry…”

“We’ve discussed it,” Harry says shortly.“He’s positive Grindelwald isn’t interested in coming after me.”

What Harry doesn’t say: _but he still won't tell me why Grindelwald had Wormtail come after my family in the first place._

1.3 Dumbledore’s Requests

Two weeks into term, a wide-eyed first-year stops Harry in the Charms corridor and hands him a small piece of parchment.In glittering turquoise ink, a loopy cursive reads simply:

 _Harry_ ,

_Please come see me in my office after dinner at your convenience._

_P.S. I have been gifted a crateful of blood pops, and I’m afraid I find myself quite at a loss as to what to do with them._

It isn’t signed, of course, but Harry has received enough of these cryptic notes by now to recognize the handwriting on sight.Dumbledore has never called Harry in to see him on account of his being in any kind of trouble, but Harry does wonder what this could be about.He hasn’t had a chance to do anything stupidly heroic (or, as a voice in his head that sounds quite a lot like Hermione says snidely, _more like heroically stupid_ ) yet, and if it were something to do with Sirius, Moony would have come to get him.Harry tries to tamp down on the wild hope that Dumbledore has finally decided to let him in on what’s left of the effort against Grindelwald, because sod what Fudge still thinks he can run around claiming about his peace treaty.Harry won’t rest until Grindelwald is stopped, and he knows Dumbledore feels the same.

He makes his way down the gargoyle corridor after dinner, the note clutched in his pocket.“Blood pops,” he tells the gargoyle statue, and it gives him a dirty look, as if offended, before hopping aside to let him up the spiral staircase.

“Ah, Harry, welcome,” Dumbledore greets, his face cracking into a bright smile when Harry knocks and pushes open the office door.“Thank you for coming.”

“Good evening, Professor.”

“Please, sit.” 

Harry does. 

“Tea?”

“Thanks, Sir.It’s good to see you back here and your office no longer, er, pink.”

Dumbledore chuckles merrily.“I am glad of that, too.Baby pink has never really been my color, you know. I’ve always much preferred royal purples and reds. Bold colors. I find they make a statement.” 

Harry laughs as Dumbledore pours them a cup of tea each and then sits back in his high-backed chair to watch Harry over steepled, bony fingers.“I am glad to see you well, Harry.I was hoping to speak to you regarding your Invisibility Cloak.”

“My…” Harry furrows his brows.“What about it, Sir?”

“Your friends Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley know of its existence, correct?”

“Er, well, yeah—I mean, yes,” Harry replies awkwardly; they have, after all, used it to sneak out of the dorm after hours to break all sorts of school rules, which he's pretty sure Dumbledore is aware of.

“Who else, if I might pry?”

“Aside from Sirius and Remus, I think Fred and George.Maybe the whole Weasley family?”Harry says uncertainly.

“I see,” Dumbledore says, though his expression does not change at all.“No one else you can remember who might have seen you use it?Think carefully.”

Harry sips his tea, thinking back through the years and beginning to shake his head.“Wait, no—possibly Neville,” he says guiltily, recalling the _Petrificus Totalus_ incident at the end of first year with a wince.

Dumbledore looks down at his hands a moment, then back at Harry.“Very well.Now, listen carefully, please, Harry.I should like your word that you will tell no one else about the Cloak, that you will keep it securely on your person at all times over the course of this year, and that you will only use it when absolutely necessary.”

Harry frowns.“Sir, is this about Grindelwald?”

“Your word, please, Harry.”

“All right, I won’t use it unless I have to, Professor.But—”

“There are things about Gellert Grindelwald I cannot tell you yet, Harry, but know that I intend to do so soon.The time is not yet right.”He smiles apologetically.

Harry fights down on the urge to ask when the time _would_ be right.“Okay, Sir,” he mumbles a little lamely when ‘thank you’ doesn’t feel quite right.

“Now," Dumbledore says, apparently satisfied, because he is suddenly upbeat and more cheerful, "moving on to your extracurricular activities: I understand that you spearheaded a rather popular…underground study group, shall we say, in my absence last year?”

Harry’s eyes widen.Of course he would have heard about it.Harry hopes the name of said ‘underground study group’ never made it back to Dumbledore; he would be mortified.“Er, yeah, though it was Hermione’s idea, really.”

“And yet you led it—and exceptionally well, too—by all accounts.”

Oh, no, is he going to be punished for this again, and _now_ , of all times?“Please don’t ban me from Quidditch, Professor; I—I’ll do detentions all year.I can’t afford to miss this match; it’s the seventh-years’ last shot at—”

“Oh, I have no intention of punishing you for such an excellent display of leadership skills, my dear boy,” Dumbledore interjects easily, eyes twinkling merrily behind his spectacles.“In fact, I merely intended to ask if you were interested in continuing your endeavors—under the auspices of the relevant school regulations pertaining to student-led organizations, of course.”

Harry stares.“You mean, continue the DA?But Moony—I mean Professor Lupin—is back teaching, so we don’t really need a… er—”

“A special-interest group for students who are passionate about improving their practical skills in Defence?I think there is every reason to encourage interest of this sort, Harry.Did you know that, among the members of your group, Defence O.W.L. and final exam marks were, on average, about half a grade higher compared to each student's performance in previous years?”

Harry did not know that, in fact.He feels a silly smile break across his face, and Dumbledore returns it, though his has more of a knowing edge to it. 

“I think it would do you and your friends some good, Harry, to keep your group going.I am certain Professor Lupin would be more than happy to serve as your faculty advisor.Although, I should say, that it might be more seemly to, ah—” he coughs delicately “—change the name.The Minister has believed for some time now I am plotting some sort of a coup against his government, and it would not do to encourage that belief.Might I suggest a revival of the Hogwarts Dueling Club, perhaps?”

Harry must visibly cringe at the name “Dueling Club,” because Dumbledore chuckles.He can probably see that Harry is thinking back to that single ill-fated meeting from second year where Harry managed to accidentally blow up Malfoy’s snake out of pure terror, knocking Lockhart clear off the platform. The man had been concussed for days, and Madam Pomfrey had needed to regrow all his front teeth.

Harry mulls it over in his mind, slowly.He really did properly enjoy leading the DA last year, when everything else both inside and outside the school was so awful; it gave him a sense of purpose when little else seemed to make sense.Aside from Quidditch, teaching Defence seems to be one of the rare things he both enjoys and is actually _good_ at.And all the members enjoyed it, too, didn’t they?Even Cedric, a year above them and already a good student.

“Defence Association,” he decides, and Dumbledore beams.

“An excellent choice,” he says approvingly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to bring Tom back right away, but the exposition got away from me, I'm afraid. Next time!


	3. Chapter 2: Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep telling myself I'm going to wait 2-3 weeks between updates because I really should pace myself, but finals stress is pushing me to use this fic to procrastinate, so, um, here you go.

The end of September brings with it the first real hint of winter, a crisp chill filling the air and prompting an earlier-than-expected appearance of fluffy, multicolored scarves among the students. 

As the arrival of the visiting schools draws near, chatter abounds regarding the much-anticipated Gryffindor-Hufflepuff exhibition match, with Zacharias Smith heard loudly complaining that such a rematch simply isn’t _fair_ because the Gryffindor ban on Quidditch last term had been well deserved:

“We won the Quidditch Cup fair and square—this is clearly just Dumbledore trying to fit in a whole year’s worth of missed opportunities for Gryffindor favoritism!”

He shuts up when Cedric, passing through the third-floor corridor, gently but firmly reminds him in front of Harry's entire sixth-year Defence class that they hadn’t won at all since it had been a default, that Smith himself had also been a member of the DA last year, and most of _their_ Quidditch team should also have been banned, too.Including Cedric and Smith.

Harry can’t help grinning to himself; Cedric really is just too decent for his own good.He’d cornered Harry at breakfast their first morning back and insisted they work out a practice schedule that ensured each team an equal number of morning and evening practices, given how little time they had to prepare. 

Harry didn’t even bother to hold tryouts for Quidditch, just promoted Ginny to Chaser from reserve and kept the rest of the team as it was.No one grumbled too loudly, though Cormac McLaggen has undoubtedly been giving him the stink-eye.Harry can’t bring himself to feel even remotely bad about it, though, because it’s been working beyond brilliantly: the Weasleys grew up around each other on brooms, and the rest of the team have been playing together for so long that their dynamic is practically flawless.Harry finds himself well and truly furious that his dream team isn't going to get a full season. 

They’ll just have to make it the best fucking match ever.

—

So it is with thoughts of Quidditch and the newly reformed (and carefully rebranded) Defence Association consuming his every waking moment that Harry hurtles into the last day of September, when Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang are set to arrive at Hogwarts.

Just before dinner, the entire student body gathers in the entrance hall to await the arrival of the visiting schools.All around them, students—from first- to seventh-years—chatter excitedly as the heads of houses call them into orderly lines.

“Are they all coming on the train, you think?” Ron whispers loudly.

“There are only about ten students coming per school; I doubt they would run the Hogwarts Express for such a small delegation,” Hermione whispers, equally loudly, from Harry’s other side, “so maybe an international portkey?”

“Ten?How’d you figure that?”

“Professor McGonagall said so during a prefect meeting.”

Ron rolls his eyes.He is, to Harry’s continued amusement and frequent exasperation, still sore that Hermione was made prefect in their previous year when neither he nor Harry was.Ron had adamantly refused to be mollified when Hermione pointed out that he and Harry spent more time breaking rules than actually following them. 

“You break the rules as often as we do—we saved the entire school, and possibly all of England—from Quirrell in first year,” he had argued hotly, "and we saved all of Hogwarts from Umbridge!”

While Harry agrees, privately, that some of their more, er, _adventurous_ exploits certainly warrant some boasting (this part of his mind always manages to sound suspiciously like Sirius), he does not much fancy the idea of being a prefect.Constantly enforcing school rules against younger students, making rounds, and attending what are sure to be exceedingly boring meetings might be just up Hermione’s alley, but Harry would much rather do without.There are other things, after all.Such as Quidditch—though not this year…But the DA is back to stay, and when he thinks back on the turnout at their first meeting of the year, in a disused Defence classroom expanded to three times its normal size, Harry’s mood improves immediately.

“Last-minute bets on whether or not Malfoy shows in the Durmstrang delegation?” he asks, bouncing on his toes to look past the heads of the younger Gryffindors towards the path to Hogsmeade Station.

“No,” Hermione says decisively.“He would never risk his own neck in something like this.I looked into the history of the Triwizard Tournament, and, well…” she trails off nervously, but at Harry and Ron’s impatient looks, continues on doggedly.“They ended up canceling the Tournament back at the end of he eighteenth century because the death toll for the contestants was just too high.In the last recorded competition, in 1792, a cockatrice went on a rampage and not only killed the Hogwarts and Durmstrang champions, but also managed to injure all three of the judges as well as several spectators.”

“A _cockatrice_?” Ron asks, voice shrill in disbelief.A sharp shushing sound from McGonagall cows him slightly, and he continues in a whisper: “Aren’t those basically just roosters with lizard tails?”

“It’s a part of the basilisk family, actually,” Hermione corrects patiently, “though it’s been so long since either one has been spotted (the breeding of basilisks was outlawed back in the middle ages), and existing accounts of them are so sparse in detail that it’s actually not clear what the difference is.”She says this all with a disapproving wrinkle in her brow; knowing her, it is because she finds the lack of information deeply offensive.

“What’s a basilisk?” Harry asks.

“A magical snakelike creature whose stare is lethal to any who make eye contact with it.There’s a paragraph about them in Scamander’s _Fantastic Beasts_.”

Harry swallows, looking over at Ron.“Well, I guess if you’ve grown up thinking it was basically a rooster, and basilisks are pretty much extra-scary snakes, then that’s our answer.”

Ron shrugs, and Hermione huffs, clearly dissatisfied with this pronouncement.

“I still say Malfoy shows,” Ron insists.

“If he doesn’t, I’ll edit all your essays for a week, and if he does, you help me promote S.P.E.W. for a week.”

Ron hesitates a moment but smirks at her.“Done.”

—

Harry thinks his ears might be about ready to freeze off when a high-pitched voice finally squeaks, “Over there!The lake!”

Sure enough, the water in the center of the Black Lake seems to bubble up ominously, but before any of the first-years can truly panic, a ship breaks the surface.

“Ah, yes,” comes Dumbledore’s calm voice.“It seems our friends at Durmstrang have arrived.”

Harry twitches at the easy way the word ‘friends’ rolled off Dumbledore’s tongue but keeps his mouth clamped shut. _Civil_ , he recalls Moony’s soothing voice from when he’d lingered in the Defence classroom after class to complain. 

_Civil,_ Harry thinks to himself. _Even if I have to spend yet another year suffering Malfoy creepily and obnoxiously refusing to leave me alone._ He takes a deep breath.

The ship docks at at the edge of the lake, and within a few minutes, a procession of severe-looking teenagers dressed in heavy furs follows a thin, rather rat-faced man up the path towards the Castle.The way they march up reminds Harry of muggle soldiers from the films Harry used to occasionally glimpse the Dursleys watching, their shoulders unnaturally straight and necks stiff as they walk.

Ron goes still next to Harry.“Harry, that’s _Krum,_ ” he whispers so loudly he probably would have been better off using his regular speaking voice.“ _Viktor Krum._ ”All around them, there are whispers rippling through the assembled Hogwarts students now, apparently all centered on the boy leading the single file of students, right at the side of what must be the headmaster of Durmstrang.

The name rings a bell somewhere for Harry, but he can’t quite recall, so he turns to Ron questioningly.

“ _Mate_ ,” Ron sighs, rolling his eyes before turning excitedly back to the Durmstrang congregation. “Viktor _Krum_.You know, the one everyone says will play Seeker for Bulgaria during next year’s World Cup?He’s been featured in _Quidditch Weekly_ twice in the past year!”

Harry looks back curiously, and sure enough, the surly looking, sallow-skinned boy leading the Durmstrang students walking just behind what must be the headmaster does look vaguely familiar.Harry doesn’t follow Quidditch news with the same fervor Ron does, though, so he only hums with polite interest.He does, however, make a note to look through their more recent copies of _Quidditch Weekly_ to see if he can find out any more about this boy, who must rank among the most promising of Grindelwald’s followers if his position at the front of the student lineup is anything to go by.

“Oh, and you owe me essays for a week, Hermione,” Ron says smugly as Hermione scowls and rises up on tip-toes, craning her neck to try and see around the fifth-year boys boys blocking her view.

And then Harry sees, too: just behind Krum, Draco Malfoy, looking remarkably like the boy from second year, with that same near-albino look: pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes, all paired with that same pointy chin.Harry would recognize him anywhere.But there is also something different about him, though under the feeble lighting of Hogwarts’s torches, it’s difficult to pinpoint what exactly.

 _So these are Grinelwald’s best_ , Harry thinks, sweeping his eyes across the rest of the Durmstrang candidates.They seem all to be either sixth- or seventh-years, barely older than Harry, but somehow, watching them all assembled in a line, backs stiff and eyes resolutely facing forward, Harry finds himself swallowing involuntarily. _Warrior-like_ , a voice in his head supplies, and he finds himself looking away away again.

The atmosphere is tense, but Dumbledore ambles up to chat quietly with the Durmstrang headmaster; they seem to already know each other, and the exchange looks quite comfortable, if not exactly friendly.

Then, Dumbledore turns his face to the sky, and with a hint of warmth, says, “Ah, and here are our friends from France.”

Harry follows his line of sight to see a huge oblong sort of shape hurtling towards them out of the sky, a black dot blotting out the moon growing larger and larger at an alarming rate.He is seized with the panicked urge to bolt out of the way as quickly as possible, but despite the general wave of unease rippling through the students, Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers seem quite calm.Harry shares a nervous look with Hermione, who shrugs weakly.

The shape resolves itself into an enormous carriage drawn by what must be equally enormous winged horses, and it comes to a remarkably graceful landing just on the bank of the lake, not so far from the Durmstrang ship.It is all rather muggle fairy tale-esque, Harry thinks.

The carriage door opens, and a makeshift set of steps floats out, followed by a red carpet, which rolls itself out open over the lawn, neatly covering the entire stretch up to the dirt path.

And then, from within the carriage emerges what must be the tallest woman Harry has ever seen in his life.

“Is she…” he starts as a flurry of whispers breaks over the Hogwarts students, but a poisonous glare from McGonagall silences them all immediately.

“She must be a half-giant,” Ron whispers lowly, after a beat.“Charlie was apprenticed to one when he started on the reserve in Romania.”At Harry’s curious look, he adds, “Nice bloke.Gryffindor, too.Came to the Burrow when we celebrated Charlie becoming a full Tamer.We invited you to the party, but you were busy gadding about on holiday in French Polynesia or something with Sirius and Lupin.”

“They went to Mauritius, not French Polynesia,” Hermione mutters under her breath.

“Okay, editor-of-my-essays-for-the-next-week.”

“They’re on practically opposite sides of the world, Ronald!”

“Look!” Harry, a little desperate, says loudly.

The Beauxbâtons students descend in a flurry of swirling silken robes, the girls in pale blue and the boys in a shade closer to midnight, all led by a tall, handsome boy with dark hair, high cheekbones, and an air of effortless confidence. _Like Cedric_ , Harry thinks, only with something haughty in his expression that would have looked out of place on Cedric, but which on this boy, looks...

“ _Bloody hell_ , is that a _veela_?” Ron rasps softly.

Harry follows Ron’s goggling stare and sees, walking at the tall boy’s side but half a step behind him, a girl that can only be described as ethereally beautiful.A cascade of silvery-blond hair falls about her radiant, heart-shaped face in long, straight tresses that seem to shimmer slightly in the low light.

Harry isn’t sure when his jaw dropped, but as he surreptitiously sneaks a look around, he is (only a little) gratified to see that the everyone else around them—boys and girls alike—is also staring at the Beauxbâtons students with varying degrees of shock and wonder.A few spaces down, Parvati and Lavender are elbowing each other in the ribs and whispering furiously.Next to him, Ron’s eyes, fixed on the blonde, have widened to the size of saucers, all his thoughts of Viktor Krum apparently forgotten.

“They… don’t make them like that here, do they?” Ron manages weakly.

Harry looks from the girl in all her silvery elegance to the boy, and is surprised to meet a dark, assessing gaze. 

They watch each other for a moment, and Harry has the strangest feeling of being picked apart and analyzed, as if being inspected for authenticity.But then, as he feels himself start to prickle at the attention, the boy’s eyes leave him to sweep over the rest of the assembly.Harry releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“No, they don’t,” he agrees quietly.

—

The warmth of the Great Hall is a welcome contrast to the frigid outdoors when they are finally allowed back inside the castle.

“Welcome, students of Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang, to Hogwarts!” Dumbledore announces in a booming, cheerful voice from his place at the head table.“Welcome,” he pauses, eyes roving piercingly over the hall, “to the revival of the Triwizard Tournament!We have added a table for you, our esteemed guests,” —here, he gestures to where the visiting students are currently seated: a smaller table that has appeared in the middle of the hall in between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables— “but, in the name of international unity, I encourage you to take seats among the Hogwarts house tables so that you may all become acquainted with our students here.And, naturally, I encourage our host students to mingle at the center table as well.

“Now, as to the main event, the Triwizard Tournament!Well, I say _Tri_ wizard… but I am afraid ‘Hexawizard Tournament’ doesn’t have quite the same ring,” he adds, and a strange, excited murmur ripples through the students in the hall.

“I _knew_ it!” Hermione hisses, triumphant.

“What?” Ron asks.

“It’s going to be more than just one contestant from each school!” Hermione explains in a rush, tone impatient.

“What’s hecks-a…” Dennis Creevey starts, then trails off, a look of intense concentration on his face.

“Hexa means six—six contestants, not three!” Hermione says immediately, but before she can say more, Dumbledore resumes talking, explaining that the Tournament will consist of three tasks, all to be completed by each of two representatives (“champions”) from each school throughout the year.Each champion’s performance will be judged by a panel comprising the three headmasters and Mr. Ludovic Bagman of the Office of Sports and Games, based on the ingenuity, efficacy, and flair with the the tasks are completed.

“Each of our fine schools shall put forth two contestants, selected from among the sixth- and seventh- year students.Any Hogwarts student who has achieved at least five O.W.L.s may put forth their name into the Goblet of Fire, which will be set up in the entrance hall starting tomorrow morning. Each member of the Beauxbâtons and Durmstrang delegations has, of course, already committed to entering.” 

“Malfoy _wouldn’t_ ,” Harry breathes in an incredulous whisper, “he’s too much of a coward!”He glances briefly over at where their former classmate sits with his school, pointedly ignoring Dumbledore in favor of talking quietly with a Durmstrang girl.

Dumbledore’s eyes pass slowly over the hall again, settling on Harry for half a second longer than they ought, but Harry doesn’t manage to parse the inscrutable look.“The winner will be awarded a grand prize of one thousand galleons, though all surviving contestants will, of course, depart bearing the eternal glory of having participated in the inaugural re-introduction of this great wizarding tradition!”

“All…surviving contestants?” a small Hufflepuff just across the way from Harry asks uncertainly, her voice ringing unnaturally loudly in the sudden silence of the Hall.

“And now, please enjoy the feast!”

A wave of muted nervous laughter ripples through the students as Dumbledore serenely turns his attention to the spread of food that has appeared before them and then cheerfully strikes up a lively conversation with the Beauxbâtons headmistress.

“Totally mad, mate, I’m telling you,” Ron mutters under his breath, and Harry snickers despite his general misgivings about, well, everything about Durmstrang being here, really.

—

“So,” Ron says, eyeing the center table speculatively.He has resolutely refused to touch any of the more exotic-looking foods laid out before them, choosing instead to stick to his tried-and-true staple of steak-and-kidney pie with mashed potatoes. 

“So?” Hermione echoes skeptically.

Harry, following Ron’s gaze toward the blond girl from Beauxbâtons, thinks he knows exactly where this conversation is headed and tries not to roll his eyes.He helps himself to more of the surprisingly delicious seafood stew, his eyes drifting to where Malfoy has readily inserted himself in with his old Slytherin gang, a couple of the Durmstrang students with them.Theodore Nott, who had more or less taken his place in the peculiar Slytherin pecking order after his departure, is looking somewhat put out.

Malfoy looks slightly ill, Harry thinks: paler—practically haggard—under the bright candlelight of the Great Hall than he did outside, and the smirk he used to wear quite naturally looks rather forced around the edges now, even as he sits surrounded by what ought to be old friends.Harry raises an eyebrow, filing this information away for further review.

“We’re meant to mingle, yeah?” Ron hedges, rather predictably, and Harry turns his attention back to his friends.

“Yeah, for the sake of international unity,” Harry confirms, smirking.

“I think we’ve rather been beaten to the punch there,” Hermione comments dryly, pointing towards the opposite end of the center table from the blond girl, where a small mob of students from all three schools is gathered.Some are squeezed uncomfortably tightly on the bench while others stand, leaning over each other towards whoever is sitting at the center of the huddle.

Ron glances over but doesn’t really seem to register her point.“C’mon, let’s go mingle,” he declares, his voice wavering a little as a piece of mashed potato falls from his fork and onto the front of his robes.He swears and hastily casts a well-practiced _Scourgify_.

“I don’t really know, Ron,” Harry tries, watching the blond girl’s end of the table.A mix of Durmstrang boys and Hogwarts seventh-years are already looming over her while some fifth- and sixth-years hang back hesitantly, as if unsure as to whether they should approach or not.The girl, for her part, seems to be directing most of her attention to a Ravenclaw seventh-year—Fawley, or maybe Fawcett?—and perfectly content to mostly ignore the others.“She looks plenty busy to me.Maybe another time, yeah?”

Ron keeps staring, and Hermione raps him gently on the arm with her unused dessert spoon.“Boys, honestly.”She rolls her eyes, and then suddenly perks up, back straight, looking attentively over Harry’s shoulder.

“Harry, how are you?You’re entering, aren’t you?”

Harry turns to see Ernie MacMillan, chummy as ever, standing over him.Rather alarmingly, he has come accompanied by a large, motley group of about a dozen students.It might be the remainder of the mob that was previously gathered around the center table.

Harry shakes his head, to general expressions of surprise.“Promised my godfathers I wouldn’t,” he explains.“It’s really important to them, and I’m not really interested in, er, ‘eternal glory’ or anything like that, so…” Harry shrugs with an uneasy smile, looking over the gathered group of students.

“Shame,” Ernie says.“I know Cedric is, and Zacharias, and even Susan says she will.A lot of us are undecided, though.I thought for sure you would, with the DA and all that.Oh, but you should meet Riddle—he’s really interested in the DA!”

Ernie looks behind him to wave someone forward, and—

It’s that boy from Beauxbâtons.

 _He’s really tall,_ is Harry’s first thought—maybe even taller than Ron. 

“Tom Riddle, of Beauxbâtons.”He extends a hand, which Harry shakes.

“Nice to meet you, er, Riddle,” Harry replies.“Harry Potter.”He feels like he should stand up, but there isn’t room, with how the group has crowded around, so he sits awkwardly, half-twisted around on the bench and craning his neck back to maintain eye contact with the much taller boy.

“A pleasure, Harry Potter.”Riddle flashes a friendly smile, the type that has Harry automatically smiling back—straight white teeth, dimpled cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners.The effect could not be more different from that of the intent, calculating expression he was wearing when they locked eyes outside the front gates, so much so, in fact, that Harry wonders if he imagined that in some sort of cold-fueled hallucination.He realizes Riddle is talking again.

“—but then Ernie told me you started a dueling club last year when the student body felt that the Ministry’s recommended curriculum wasn’t up to standard, and that it was really thanks to you that they all did so well on their exams,” Riddle is saying in a perfectly clipped Pureblood English accent, of the sort Harry is used to hearing from Sirius when he’s ranting about the Ministry or his family and unwittingly slips back into the cadences his childhood pounded into him.“I don’t suppose I could attend your next meeting, could I?”His eyes shine warm and bright, his smile eager.

Harry blinks.“You mean for the DA?”

“Of course, if you don’t think it would be appropriate—I don’t mean to impose…” Riddle trails off, physically pulling back a fraction, his dark brows drawing together into something concerned.

“No—I mean, yes, of course!”Harry rushes to say.“I mean, I’m sure it’ll be fine.With, er, school rules, and all.”

Wait, does that sound like he’s looking for a reason not to let Riddle join?

“Or—even if it isn’t, you should come!”Harry curses inwardly at his sudden inability to speak articulately. Riddle is still smiling at him, something knowing hovering at the corners of his curved lips.

“Sorry, what I mean to say is yes, please join us—if you’re interested, that is.But it isn’t really anything impre—”

“We meet on Wednesday afternoons at 4:30 in classroom 313,” Hermione cuts in smoothly, leaning forward across the dining table and sticking out a hand.“Hermione Granger, co-founder of the Defence Association.”

Riddle turns that friendly smile on her and takes her hand.“Lovely to meet you,” he greets, beaming from Hermione back to Harry.“Did you conceive of the group together, then?”

“Well, it was really Hermione’s idea…” Harry starts.

“Oh, but Harry has led it since the beginning, and we really couldn’t have gotten on if it had been anyone else,” Cho Chang says, stepping around from behind Ernie.She smiles at Riddle.“I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful addition to the DA, Riddle.One of your classmates was telling me that everyone calls you the best student Beauxbâtons has had in generations!Is it really true you’ve had personal Alchemy tutoring with Nicolas Flamel?”

“ _What?_ ” Hermione gasps, shooting to her feet.

Harry watches, a little dazed, as the conversation gravitates easily back to Riddle, who answers their questions about Flamel and then, with a self-deprecating grin, segues into an amusing story about the very nearly disastrous consequences of attempting to transmute coal into gold without the aid of a philosopher’s stone after he and his classmates had been specifically warned against it.

Riddle eventually suggests that all the visiting students be introduced to the Head Boy and Girl, and Cho heads off towards Cedric, who is now chatting with the blond Beauxbâtons girl.. 

A pale hand lands on Harry’s shoulder, and he looks back up to see Riddle grinning down at him.“It was lovely to meet you, Harry.I look forward to your Defence Association meeting.”And he’s off, following Cho towards the center table before Harry can reply.The rest of the group trails after him, expressions of admiration and excitement writ clear on their faces.

“Well, on the one hand we’ve got to deal with Malfoy again, but he seems all right,” Ron comments.Hermione has left with the group, chatting animatedly with Riddle about something.“Not bad, eh, Beauxbâtons?”His gaze drifts back to the blond girl.

“Guess so,” Harry agrees, and looks back to his dinner only to find that it has, in his distraction, been replaced with a spread of all sorts of different desserts.There isn’t any treacle tart, but he chooses an assortment of fluffy-looking French pastries and happily sets to work.

—

Harry doesn’t know what it is that pushes him to sit back up in bed that night after lights out, but with something insistent niggling at the back of his mind and refusing him sleep, he lights his wand and pulls out the Marauder’s Map, smiling to himself as the lines of black ink curl over its frayed, yellow surface.

And there it is: a dot labeled _Draco Malfoy_ in an old disused classroom just a few paces down from the entrance to the Slytherin common room.What Harry doesn’t expect, though, is the dot immediately next to it, marked _Tom Marvolo Riddle_.

Malfoy’s dot moves back and forth in a repeating pattern as if he is pacing, though whether it is in excitement or in agitation is impossible to tell, while Riddle’s remains stationary.They must be talking, and whatever they’re talking about has Malfoy worked up in some way or another.

Harry feels his eyebrows rise into his hair.Malfoy skulking around the Slytherin dungeons after hours isn’t that unexpected—probably just sneaking back out of the castle after catching up with his old Slytherin thugs—but what is the French model student who speaks perfect English doing there, too?Harry suddenly remembers that uncomfortable way Riddle looked at him right after he exited the carriage earlier in the evening.Perhaps…

His eyes dart to his school robes, where he’s been keeping the Cloak in a pocket Moony expanded for him.His promise to Dumbledore about using it when only absolutely necessary rings accusatorially in his ears.

Surely, something this suspicious would fall into that category, though?

There are snores emanating from behind Ron’s curtains, so Harry swings his feet out of bed and into his trainers, dons the Invisibility Cloak, and, map and wand in hand, tiptoes out of the dormitory.

It’s Harry’s first nighttime stroll as a sixth-year, but Hogwarts’s dark corridors feel ever familiar.He gets so comfortable reveling in the thrill of being out of bed that he almost runs straight into Peeves, who has carefully blockaded an entire corridor by piling desks and chairs over each other so that they form a rickety but impenetrable barrier, and he ends up needing to double back quite a ways, losing nearly ten minutes.He pulls the map back out to check.

Harry swears as he catches Malfoy’s dot just moving out of the entrance hall towards the gates.Riddle is still in the dungeons, now moving alone down a more remote corridor.Harry grits his teeth, looking between the two: Malfoy or Riddle?Malfoy seems to simply be headed back towards the Durmstrang ship, so he makes his decision.

—

Harry has snuck down into the dungeons after hours to raid the kitchen before, but that’s on the opposite end of the castle, near the Hufflepuff dormitories; he hasn’t spent much time exploring the Slytherin end, where the wall sconces and torches burn with green flames that cast every surface in a strange, uneasy glow.He slows down and, unfolding the Map again, carefully Silences his feet before creeping down towards the corridor Riddle occupies.

Harry turns the corner, and there he is, back turned, tall and slim in the same midnight blue Beauxbâtons uniform as earlier.A pale wand dangles loosely in his left hand, and he seems to be… just standing there, not doing anything.Harry stares, watching the pale green candlelight reflect off the silk of his robes, and realizes that his heart is pounding, though he can’t think why. 

It’s just a boy standing in a corridor.

And then, the most curious sound: like a stream of air escaping a Gringotts vault after it’s been sealed shut for a long time, and Tom Riddle turns around, his face contorted into a green-tinted snarl—lips drawn back, teeth bared, eyes narrowed—and _Merlin’s balls, the sound is coming_ _from his mouth_.

Harry trips backwards, not caring whether or not he’s made a noise or given himself away.He can’t explain this sudden gripping panic, but he _needs to get away_.

He clutches the Invisibility Cloak securely around him and bolts up the stairs back towards Gryffindor tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an idea of what Harry heard coming out of a human boy's mouth, please see: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jT6qZpdGeIw


	4. Chapter 3: Riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom demonstrates a remarkable capacity for doublethink, and Harry continues the canon-hallowed tradition of Not Telling Grownups Important Things.

3.1 A Powerful Wand

Tom has only ever been to England once before. 

He remembers it thus:

After he turned eleven, Merope prepared a day’s worth of Polyjuice for herself and ushered them onto a muggle ferry to cross the Channel. 

“To see your rightful homeland,” she said, in a reedy voice so very unlike her own, her intent expression incongruous on the wrinkled, unfamiliar face she wore.Where she had found a woman even more revolting in appearance than herself, Tom would never know.

“You are descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, the greatest of the Hogwarts Four; you bear all his gifts in such great concentration,” she rasped against his ear in her borrowed voice, fingers viselike around his shoulders as she herded them onto a London-bound muggle train.“And thus you must have a wand made by an Englishman.”

Tom had long decided, by then, that Merope must be a horrible aberration from Salazar Slytherin’s legacy because Tom was nothing like Merope.Where she was dull and plain, Tom was anything but, his magical abilities without a wand at eleven far outstripping her own even with wand in hand.And when Tom used her wand to practice the spells in the books he borrowed from the magical library, _well_. 

(He would find out later, upon accessing her memories of Morfin and Marvolo using Legilimency, that talent did not necessarily accompany blood, if his mother’s and grandfather’s generations were anything to go by.)

Merope took them to Diagon Alley, where Tom eyed the streets and shops with curiosity, so different from his favorite haunts at Place Cachée. Yes, some of the smells were similar—wood-burning fires, spiced mulled wine, and that heady mix of potions ingredients of all sorts drifting out of a dingy-looking apothecary—but the sounds were louder, noisier, more brusque, with hard, awkward vowel sounds he wasn’t used to hearing shouted up and down the street at ear-splitting volumes in accents so varied he sometimes didn't even understand the words.It made the muscles in his cheeks and jaw sore, just imagining bellowing in English all day the way the salespeople of Diagon Alley did.

Tom seized the first opportunity to rid himself of Merope’s cumbersome shadow.She imposed her own will on him less and less as he got older, and it was a simple thing to demand that she apportion him the funds he would need.He would conduct his own affairs while she visited the apothecary to replenish her stores of the rarer ingredients of British origin she had trouble procuring with regularity in Paris; it would be a much more efficient allocation of their time if they wanted to catch the train back to Dover in time for the last muggle ferry.She had fretted but acquiesced easily enough.

He found Ollivanders on his own, and he recalls, even now, the way the dust motes caught the feeble rays of light filtering in through a window encrusted with the previous day’s snowfall, the way the darkened little shop interior radiated a sense of stillness, full of slumbering magic just waiting to be woken and given direction.

The salesman was old and wrinkled, and said not a word as his pale, deeply hooded eyes took in the sight of an eleven-year-old, unaccompanied Tom Riddle.

“Are you Mr. Ollivander?” Tom asked in his politest tone and with his most winning smile. The atmosphere of the shop had hardly seemed to call for it, but he had been too young at the time to appreciate such subtleties of human interaction.In such a setting, a show of confidence from a child should have been more likely to incite suspicion in most adults than a slightly more nervous disposition, but the shopkeeper did not seem notice; certainly, he did not outwardly react.

“Starting at Hogwarts?” he asked instead of answering.

“Beauxbâtons, Sir,” Tom replied, “but my mother considers an English-made wand appropriate for me.”

“Ah.”That strange, limpid stare again.Then: “You have the air of one who already knows his way around a spell or three.”

“I’ve used my mother’s wand before to cast spells, though I’ve never had my own,” Tom offered, though he was not at all sure how someone could tell such a thing by just looking.“She inherited it from her mother, I believe.”

“Your wand arm?”

“Either, Sir.”He did not volunteer that it sometimes depended on his mood, or that some days he simply had more success coaxing spells out of his left hand than his right, whereas on others it might be the other way around.He did not know if such a thing was normal or not, and none of his library books had shed much light on the subject.

The old man never confirmed whether he was Ollivander or not, but Tom was absolutely certain by now that he must be, and watched with interest as a set of measuring tapes set to work against both his arms as the old man meandered away towards the dusty stacks behind the counter.

Tom must have tried at least fifty wands, all of which Ollivander described as he handed them over in turn: ash and dragon heartstring, swishy and good for charm work; rowan and unicorn hair, flexible and particularly suited to defensive spells; lilac and phoenix feather, an incredibly rare combination, given how finicky the two materials were individually, let alone combined; even sycamore and thunderbird feather—a rarity from the Americas—a particularly adventurous wand that was sure to rescue its user under circumstances of great distress; but combination after combination, the wand maker’s frown only deepened.

Tom waved and waved, sometimes switching from his right hand to his left for the sake of variety, to see if it made a difference, until every stick felt as nothing more than a common twig, like a word repeated so many times it lost all meaning.Many of them felt perfectly ordinary in his hand, like Merope’s wand (and until then, the way he had assumed all wands should feel)—a simple tool that would bring his incantations to life.Others, though, felt hardly magic to him at all, as if they were empty and dead.And in each case, Ollivander snatched the wand away the moment he was done waving it, and on some occasions, nearly the moment his fingers made contact.

The oblong paper boxes piled up in an untidy heap on the dusty counter, and Tom frowned at the old man, quite unsure by now whether or not he was actually qualified to be selling these things.Perhaps Tom ought to have gone with a French maker, after all, and just been done with it.He had been using Merope’s wand for years without trouble, after all, and he was certain that many of the wands he had already tried would be perfectly serviceable.

Finally, the tried-and-discarded pile having amassed to the size of a small mountain, Ollivander eyed Tom piercingly for a long moment, then disappeared into the farthest recesses of his dim shop.

Tom stood there, boredom, exasperation, and unbridled curiosity warring within him, until the old man returned with two slim boxes, their labels yellowed and peeling with age, and set them both on the counter.

Tom stared, and before he was fully conscious of it, he had picked up the one on the left and opened it to reveal a wand of pale, unadorned wood, polished to such a high shine it nearly glowed, and longer than most he had tried.

“Yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches,” the wand maker murmured softly—reverently, almost.He didn’t add anything about what type of magic this one would be good for as with the others but simply handed it to Tom, something in his manner strained and quivering, as if strung taut in anticipation.

The moment Tom took it in hand, he _knew_.This wand of yew and phoenix feather was his.The wave of warmth that swelled from his fingertips down through the tips of his toes was quite unlike anything he’d felt before; it felt like it _belonged_ , like coming home in a way Tom had never quite known in his life.

He waved the wand, and a stream of silver sparks sailed out of the end and shot into the air, where each individual spark hung like a star suspended in space.They illuminated the shop in an entirely new way, all the formerly dark corners now bathed in a cool, friendly light.

The wood pulsed warm under his fingers.

Tom beamed up at Ollivander, who, to his surprise, did not immediately smile back.

“A powerful wand, very powerful…” he rasped, voice scratchy.“What will you achieve with such a wand, I wonder…” his eyes roved searchingly over Tom’s face in a way that made him bristle instinctively, but he tamped it down and stood still, refusing to cower before this strange, papery man.

And then Ollivander leaned away, expression thoughtful, and Tom handed over his exchanged currency.As he exited the shop with the yew wand tucked safely into the slot sewn into his sleeve, he felt Ollivander’s pale eyes boring into the back of his neck all the way down the cobblestoned street.

Later in the evening, as England’s shores receded into misty obscurity and the Channel’s churning waves sent a chilling spray onto the ferry’s already-damp deck, Tom closed his eyes and visualized the image of Hogwarts Castle as painted in _Hogwarts, A History_ , his fingers clasped tightly around the warm handle of the wand tucked into his sleeve. 

There, on that little piece of land, his lineage mattered.There, he would be somebody. 

He would be back to claim it all.

—

Now, as Tom looks out onto the foggy Hogwarts grounds from the confines of his cabin in the Beauxbâtons carriage, he thinks that he couldn’t have arrived under more fitting circumstances if he’d been able to plan it himself: champion of the Triwizard Tournament, arrived to rediscover and reassert Salazar Slytherin’s lost legacy.While Slytherin’s lineage will surely serve him well in a number of matters here in England, it has been of little use to him before now, as he couldn’t leverage it; the French have always been too engrossed in their own _histoire_ _et_ _patrimoine français_ to care much for the destitute and grossly inbred descendants of a founder of a school.All the clout he has with the Beauxbâtons students, he has had to achieve through careful plotting, social scheming, and ridiculous intimidation tactics.

Here, at Hogwarts, though… here, his birthright awaits him: this is where he will claim Slytherin’s legacy.Here, those who recognize his talent for what it means immediately cower and grovel before him—even, or perhaps especially, those from the old pureblood families.He recalls how quickly the pathetic Malfoy heir’s false bravado crumpled last night.Here, no quasi-squib mother or unhinged, inbred family will interfere with his right to assert his claim on the magical world.

Tom has barely slept, having spent most of the night first playing politics and then exploring the lower levels of the Hogwarts dungeons, chasing a Basilisk’s whispers.

He didn’t find the Chamber of Secrets last night, but of course, he never dreamed that he would succeed so quickly.Surviving information regarding the Chamber is sparse, and what little knowledge of it the Gaunts retained throughout the ages has petered out to such an extent that Merope knows ( _knew?_ Tom wonders, a little wistfully, what Merope’s mind is capable of knowing now, after his _Obliviate_ ) scarcely more than the rumors the masses peddle.

 _Below_ , the Basilisk’s voice hisses to him even now, an encouraging hum in the back of his mind. _Find me, Massster, releassse me, and I am yours to command._

Tom will have all year to explore Hogwarts Castle, he thinks with satisfaction.It is a grand structure, though of a different character from Palais Beauxbâtons, certainly, with none of the grace of the arching white vaults or soaring clerestory windows emblematic of the High Gothic tradition.No, Hogwarts belongs to that family of fortresslike medieval castles built for war and to withstand months-long sieges: all thick stone walls and imposing towers, the winding corridors full of secret passageways, where the foundational magic embedded in every block of limestone pulses with every student’s footstep. 

Hogwarts, his fortress.

3.2 Tuesday Morning

By the time Harry crawls out of bed for Quidditch practice at five-thirty the following morning, after a night of entirely futile attempts to sleep, he has almost succeeded in convincing himself that the previous night’s glimpse of Tom Riddle could only have been the product of mounting stress and exhaustion over the past few weeks.Suddenly restarting the DA on short notice, the increasing frenzy of Quidditch practice, and the anticipation of Durmstrang’s (ultimately rather anticlimactic) arrival must have combined with the eerie atmosphere of the Slytherin side of the dungeons to cause him to see things that simply weren’t there, or at least twist them out of proportion.It would be a much more reasonable (and less alarming) explanation for... for whatever it was that he saw.

 _Almost_ convinced himself.Harry has always been one for trusting his instincts; it is, he likes to think, just more proof that he was properly sorted into Gryffindor ( _Is that really a Gryffindor trait, though?_ Hermione once questioned, skeptical).

He drags himself out of bed and towards the bathroom, turning over that final image of Tom Riddle again and again in his mind: the violent, animalistic expression on his face, the _sound_ coming out of his mouth. 

What had that _been_?Harry can’t quite liken the sound to anything he’s ever heard from a human being, that sort of… hissing steam, perhaps, like the sound of a particularly cranky radiator waking up to generate heat after a period of inactivity.

Is Riddle possessed by some sort of dark creature?Actually, Harry realizes, he doesn’t know the first thing about possession, just that it’s often classified as a Dark Art and sometimes has to do with Divination. _Could_ possession by some sort of ghoul or banshee cause a person to breathe strange sounds out of their mouth?They’ve certainly never covered anything like it in Defence, and Sirius had (jokingly) threatened not to sign the final adoption paperwork if Harry chose Divination for one of his third-year electives.

It’s jarring.Riddle was so… normal at dinner last night.Friendly.Engaging.Warm.

But then Harry thinks back to the way that same boy stared at him back at the front gates just after he had stepped off the carriage, and he feels uneasy again.Even if Riddle isn’t actually possessed, there is definitely still something deeply wrong with him, or he must be dabbling in some seriously dodgy dark magic—Harry should at least tell Remus, if not Dumbledore.

But what would he even say?

 _You see, Moony, I was sneaking around the castle after hours stalking Malfoy like you made me promise not to,_ _and I saw everyone’s new favorite Beauxbâtons student making weird radiator noises near the Slytherin dungeon._

…It sounds absolutely mental.

And while Harry knows that Remus trusts him implicitly and wouldn’t actually openly laugh at him, it seems like entirely too insignificant a thing to report when he says the actual words to himself in his head.And even then, if Remus _does_ consider it important and worth looking into, he will undoubtedly bring it to Dumbledore’s attention, and Harry will have to explain to the headmaster that he’s already broken his barely-two-week-old promise not to use his Invisibility Cloak…

He doesn’t think he can bear to disappoint both Remus and Dumbledore at the same time. McGonagall’s warning about rule-breaking and getting into trouble at the expense of Quidditch privileges sounds ominously in his ears.

He’ll wait until after the match, just in case.He can share his suspicions with Ron and Hermione and gather more evidence in the meantime. 

Harry exits the bathroom to find Ron sleepily pulling on his Quidditch robes, and they troop down towards the pitch together.

Practice goes surprisingly well, in spite of Harry’s lack of sleep.They’re going to crush this match on Saturday, he thinks, smiling to himself as the team heads for the showers.

—

Harry enters the Great Hall to find Tom Riddle of Beauxbâtons chatting with Remus at the very end of the head table.

Harry stops short.Does a double take.Riddle, looking perfectly normal and just as charming as he did at dinner last night, is _chatting_ with Remus at the head of the Gryffindor table, where all the first-years sit.It looks like he somehow cornered Remus on his way up to his seat.Both seem perfectly at ease; Remus looks flattered by whatever it is Riddle is saying, even going so far as to laugh openly at what might have been a joke.Harry watches, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he makes his way over to the open seat across from Ron (who had, true to form, bolted straight from the boys’ locker room to breakfast without waiting up for Harry).He piles eggs, sausage and toast onto his plate—morning practice always makes him ravenous—slams it down onto the table, and takes a particularly vicious bite out of a sausage.

“What’s with you?I thought practice went pretty well,” Ron says, both eyebrows raised over his goblet of pumpkin juice.Then he takes a closer look at Harry.“Blimey, Harry, did you sleep at all last night?”Next to him, Hermione narrows her eyes, as if her inner prefect sense has been tripped and she _knows_ he’s been sneaking about against Remus and Dumbledore’s wishes.

“We need to talk,” Harry says meaningfully, eyes still fixed on Riddle’s back.“Yes, Hermione, I did sneak out after hours last night, but only because I saw on the Map that Malfoy was up to something in the dungeons.”He finally looks up at the both of them.“D’you both have first period free?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ron says as Hermione shakes her head; it’s the first Tuesday of the month, so there's a prefect meeting.

“All right, fine, we can talk here; just let me—” Harry hides his wand under the table and casts a quick _Muffliato._

“I still can’t believe Sirius waited until last year to teach us that one,” Ron grouses, casting an appreciative glance around them at the oblivious students surrounding them.

“He learned it from my mum, apparently,” Harry supplies.“I’d the sense that he doesn’t really like using it. Said it's the principle of the thing, or something.”

“All right, Harry, what did you stay up all night doing?” Hermione prompts, tone slightly impatient.

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Harry mutters.He glances back up at the front of the Hall, but Riddle isn’t there anymore, and Remus has tucked into his breakfast at the high table.He returns his attention to his friends and catches Hermione’s skeptical expression.“Okay, fine, yes, I followed Malfoy, but only because he was being suspicious—”

“Why, because he happened to be in the dungeons?”Hermione asks.“You do realize he probably had a lot to catch up with his friends on.”

“Well, yes, except he wasn’t _in_ the Slytherin common room; he was talking to Tom Riddle, from Beauxbâtons, in some side corridor!”And he quickly describes his prematurely aborted escapade.

Ron and Hermione stare at him with twin expressions of confusion.

“…like a _radiator_?” Ron repeats, shooting Hermione an incredulous look.He looks like he might burst into laughter at any second, and Harry glares, then winces at the confirmation that he was probably correct not to bring this to Remus straight away.It really does sound ridiculous.

“You said it was a hissing sound, though?” Hermione asks thoughtfully.“It couldn’t have been Parseltongue, could it?”

“Parseltongue?Isn't that where Slytherin could talk to snakes?I think I would have known the difference between a snake’s hiss and steam…” Harry begins, and then trails off, realizing that he may actually never have _heard_ a snake in real life.He’s seen grass snakes on occasion when visiting the Burrow, but he isn't sure he knows what they sound like.The rest of his life has been spent in either the carefully manicured confines of Privet Drive or else in London at Grimmauld Place.Then, feeling slightly daft, he asks, “Don’t they go ‘sssss’?”

“Not _actually_ ‘sssss,’ that’s just what people write in storybooks,” Hermione says primly.“It’s more… it actually is more like a concentrated stream of air in the way you described, Harry, now that I think on it.Especially among the larger species, like pythons.”

“What are you, a snake expert?” Ron asks.

“I’ve watched every single one of David Attenborough’s wildlife documentaries.”

“Muggle television program about animals,” Harry explains quickly, at Ron’s blank look.

“What, so you’re saying that some French boy was muttering to himself in Parseltongue down in the dungeons?” Ron asks, eye wide. 

“I know it sounds mad,” Harry says, frustrated.“And stupid.”

“Not necessarily stupid,” Hermione chides gently, her fingers drumming against the table as she furrows her brow in thought.“But no one’s been known to be a Parselmouth for centuries at least.It’s supposed to be a hereditary skill, and Slytherin’s line died out within a few generations of the founding, according to _Hogwarts, A History_.I can look more into that, though.”Her eyes gleam with that familiar sparkle at the prospect of a new research project.

“He’s muggleborn anyway, isn’t he?” Ron says.“Lavender was telling me last night she heard him say his family’s originally English, and Riddle isn’t a magical name over here.Couldn’t be related to Slytherin if that’s the case.”

“Don’t be silly, he could be a half-blood through his mother’s side,” Hermione says, that thoughtful look still on her face.

“You talked to him a fair bit last night at dinner, Hermione, yeah?”

“Well, yes, but we mostly discussed how Alchemy is a core subject in the Beaubâtons curriculum and the differences with how Potions is taught here.And about Nicholas Flamel, of course. He really is very interesting and polite. He didn’t say anything about being related to any old English families.”

“Is it possible that, you know, he just stubbed a toe and that’s what you saw?It’d explain the angry expression and everything,” Ron says.“You know, like a hiss of pain or something.”

“I know what I saw,” Harry insists irritably, even though Ron’s suggestion does sound perfectly reasonable.But Harry just can’t shake the feeling that something really was terribly _wrong_ in that moment, and he says as much.“And he was definitely having some sort of secret conversation with Malfoy before I got there.They must be up to something dodgy together.”

“No, Harry, you have to stop following Malfoy around!” Hermione says firmly, apparently suddenly losing patience.“I know you don't like him, but this is exactly like in second year, where you were convinced he was carrying on Quirrell’s work as a Grindelwald spy, when he was _twelve years old_ —”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly wrong, was I?”Harry realizes distantly he might be shouting, but he doesn’t care; why can’t they _see_ that it’s all wrong?"He went off to Durmstrang and is now back here as a Grindelwald agent doing Merlin knows what in this school!”

“—which you have _no_ proof for, Harry! Malfoy's just a teenager, like us! He has no business doing Grindelwald's dirty work. You can’t just be jumping at every shadow you see; you’ve far too much going on this year as it is, _and_ we’re N.E.W.T. students now!”She adds that last bit as if it should make all the difference.

Harry grits his teeth.How can they not support him on this?He’s always been right about the dodgy things.Well.Usually right.Snape really had been trying to save him from Quirrell that time with the broom in first year, according to Dumbledore.

Hermione sighs.“I'll look more into Slytherin’s lineage, and you can get to know Riddle better in the meantime— _not_ by stalking him, Harry; what if he’d seen you last night?”

Harry manages to look a little contrite; part of the reason he never got to sleep last night was that he’d been afraid the cloak might have slipped a little and that Riddle _had_ seen someone following him around, but Riddle had seemed perfectly at ease at breakfast.

“Fine, but help me keep an eye on him if he shows up to the DA meeting tomorrow,” he concedes.

“If he really was speaking Parseltongue, then that really would be incredibly interesting,” Hermione says, tapping her chin.“I need to get to the prefects’ meeting now, but I’ll see you two in Defence.”

Harry sighs, releases the muffling charm, and pulls out his Charms homework.

—

As it turns out, Harry doesn’t need to wait until the DA meeting to keep an eye on Tom Marvolo Riddle.Ron needed to double back to Gryffindor tower to pick up his Defence textbook, so Harry is alone when Riddle catches up to him on the way to Defence.

“Harry.”

Harry jerks to a halt and tells himself not to clench his jaw.Who does Riddle think he is, just calling him by his first name like that, as if they’re already best friends?Harry takes a calming breath.

 _Be friendly,_ he thinks to himself. _You have no reason to believe he’s anything other than a normal boy_. _Stupidly tall, but otherwise totally normal._

Of course, it doesn’t work, and when he turns around, Harry’s smile, stretched awkward and wrong across his uncooperative face, feels like a grimace.“Riddle,” he greets, hopefully friendly and not at all suspicious. 

Riddle is wearing that warm, charming smile from dinner last night, and under the morning light streaming through the entrance hall’s leaded-glass windows, his eyes are the color of the vintage honeyed Cognac Sirius only gets out for special occasions.Harry finds himself staring, swallows, then recalls what he’s now thinking of as the ‘dungeons-face,’ and scowls instead.

“You’ve got sixth-year N.E.W.T. Defence Against the Dark Arts second period, right?” Riddle says, apparently oblivious to Harry’s wildly morphing facial expressions.“Would you walk me to your class?”

“Why should I walk to you to my class?” Harry asks blankly, caught off guard at the strange request.

“Ooooh!” Lavender Brown squeals— _Merlin, where did she pop out from—_ “Are you visiting the Hogwarts classes, _Monsieur_ Riddle?”She and Parvati are suddenly crowding around Harry like they’re the best of friends.Harry scowls and tries, ineffectually, to shove them away.

“Please, just call me Riddle.We are the same age, after all.”He flashes a charming smile, all white teeth and lovely dimples, and Lavender and Parvati giggle like well-trained puppies. 

“I spoke to Headmaster Dumbledore and received permission to attend some Hogwarts classes as long as I keep up with my course load from Beauxbâtons,” Riddle explains, his smile receding into something bashful as they all begin walking towards the grand staircase. 

Harry immediately does _not_ like this expression on Riddle’s face; it feels completely out of place— _wrong_ —somehow, after what he witnessed down in the dungeons.

“Oh?We’d love to have you in our classes!”Parvati this time, starting to make for the east staircase.“How are you taking your own classes, then?Did all your teachers come over with you from France?”

“Goodness, no,” Riddle replies, chuckling.“Our teachers lecture us via Floo projection, and once a week, we meet individually with a tutor who’s accompanying us here.As you can imagine, it’s nowhere as engaging as a real class with the teacher actually present, and Headmaster Dumbledore was very understanding.”That dimpled smile again.

“When did you have time to talk to Dumbledore?” Harry asks, shocked.Riddle had almost certainly been too busy leading around a posse of students yesterday at dinner, and Dumbledore wasn’t at breakfast this morning.

“I wrote him when I was at Beauxbâtons, of course,” Riddle replies, as if writing letters to headmasters of foreign wizarding schools in order to ask to take extra classes is a perfectly ordinary thing to do.“He was incredibly accommodating, really.”

“And he just replied?” Harry asks, refusing to let it go.

Riddle looks at him a little oddly.“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Riddle has been tutored by _Nicolas Flamel_ , Harry,” Lavender sniffs.“Of _course_ Dumbledore would say yes.”

They turn off the staircase onto the third-floor Defence corridor, where they are joined by the Hufflepuffs and a handful of Ravenclaws.Lavender and Parvati immediately share Riddle’s good news.

“So you’ll attend some of the sixth-year classes with us?” asks Susan Bones.

“I attended seventh-year Ancient Runes first period, actually,” Riddle says airily.“The sixth-year class didn’t fit into my Floo schedule, unfortunately.”

“Wow,” Justin Finch-Fletchley breathes.“I wish I could attend classes at a foreign school.Though I only know English, I suppose.You’re so lucky you’re bilingual, Riddle.”

And Riddle smiles, the edges twisting sly and enigmatic.“I wouldn’t really call myself bilingual, actually.”

Harry’s eyes widen at the blatant admission, but Lavender giggles.“Oh, don’t be so modest, Riddle!Your English is completely perfect.”

Riddle’s sunny smile only broadens.“I’m fortunate in that my mother is English, and I grew up listening to the WWN on the wireless, so I’ve had opportunities to practice,” he says with something that is apparently meant to pass as modesty. 

Harry gapes in shock as the assembled students around him all make impressed noises.

The bell rings just as Ron and Hermione jog up to the classroom, trailed by the Slytherins. 

“Shall we, then?” Riddle says, and winks before striding into the classroom like he owns it.

Harry sputters, glaring sullenly at his back as Ron and Hermione catch up.“He—he’s going to be attending _classes_ with us,” he whispers to them furiously.

“Oh, are the visiting students allowed to come to our classes?” Hermione asks, completely missing the point.

Ron watches Harry’s betrayed expression knowingly.“Mate, this is a good thing,” he says, patting Harry on the shoulder.“You wanted to keep an eye on him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but not…” he trails off, not exactly sure how to put it into words as Ron and Hermione troop cheerfully past him into the classroom.Despite their earlier interest in Riddle potentially being a Parselmouth, they’re not taking this seriously _at all_.

“Not like this,” Harry says lamely.Riddle has been here less than twenty-four hours, and he has somehow managed to ingratiate himself into everyone’s—including Remus's and even fucking _Dumbledore's—_ good graces when Harry _knows_ there’s something off.

Harry takes a deep breath and follows them into Defence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the detail about picking up English on the radio is shamelessly borrowed from Cybrid’s story, A Dangerous Game (aka objectively one of the best fics in this ship; go read it if you somehow haven't!).


	5. Chapter 4: The DA Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some confrontations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to my friend [Artemis1219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1219/pseuds/Artemis1219) for the notes and advice on this chapter!

“I'm going to tell him he can’t come this afternoon,” Harry announces with conviction.

“Harry,” Hermione says in her ‘I’m nearly a year older than you and I think you’re being childish’ voice.

“Oh, brilliant, is this borscht?” Ron crows, leaning past her to peer at a stew such a truly alarming shade of red it practically glows.They have just sat down to lunch, which continues to feature all sorts of interesting cuisines from the Continent.

“He was unbearably smug all through Defence yesterday, and now he’s going to keep being smug today at _my_ DA meeting,” Harry seethes, ignoring Ron.“Can you imagine?‘Oh, in _France_ we’re taught to incant _Patronum Expecto_ and not the other way around because it’s how Julius fucking Caesar would have cast it, because, unlike you uncivilized barbarians, in _France_ we study Latin even though it’s a _dead fucking language_ ,’” he mimics, paraphrasing liberally (and perhaps embellishing ever so slightly).

“That isn’t at all how he sounds,” Hermione points out patiently.“It was more like that Delacour girl, if anything.Or Malfoy.I think you might be starting to conflate them in your head.”

“I thought it wasn’t that far off, actually,” Ron says, and Harry shoots him a grateful look.

“See, Hermione?Just because he’s taken Cedric Diggory’s place as your favorite fit star student, doesn’t mean the rest of us are also in love with him.”

Hermione scowls and graces them with a truly dramatic roll of her eyes. 

“That’s debatable, mate.”Ron points over at the Slytherin table, where Malfoy’s newly reassembled gang and a small crew of visiting students are all crowded around Riddle, hanging onto his every word.

Harry tries very hard not to grind his teeth.

“ _And_ he’s suddenly best friends with all the Slytherins,” Harry adds darkly, because buddying up to the Slytherins is incontestable proof that Riddle is officially dodgy.

“He’s probably just taking turns with all the houses,” Hermione says.“He sat with the Ravenclaws at dinner last night.”

“Did he?” Harry asks, surprised.

“What were you, keeping track of him?” Ron snickers.

“N-no!I just noticed, is all.”The faint flush across Hermione’s cheeks, though, tells a different story.“A-anyway, it’s too late to uninvite him, Harry; you very enthusiastically asked him to join in front of practically half the DA literally the moment you met him.And they all like him and will wonder why if he doesn’t show up.”

Harry buries his face in his hands, feeling utterly betrayed.

—

When Harry arrives at the DA classroom that afternoon, Riddle is already waiting outside with two other Beauxbâtons students and… Malfoy and a handful of other Slytherins.

“What are you lot doing here?” Harry asks with a dawning sense of horror.

“Joining up, of course,” Daphne Greengrass answers sweetly.She glances quickly at Riddle and then back at Harry.“It’s a school organization, and your charter says anyone fifth year and up can join.Everyone knows that your _association_ members did loads better on their O.W.L.s than the rest of us.”She pouts prettily.“You can’t keep us out because of some silly house rivalry.”

Harry doesn’t think she’s ever spoken so many words to him.Actually, she may never even have looked at him before.

“We only have to sign our names on your little members’ list, right, Potter?” Nott says, waving a quill with a gilded handhold shaped like a dragon's head.

Harry finds himself well and truly at a loss for words.

Behind them, Malfoy looks like he wants nothing more than to stab his own eyes out with Nott’s ridiculous quill, and Harry’s brain takes a moment to short-circuit at the awful realization that he’s empathizing with _Malfoy_.

“You want to join a _Defence_ Against the Dark Arts club?” Harry asks, enunciating every word very clearly, just to be absolutely certain there isn’t some sort of massive misunderstanding.(Crabbe and Goyle gawk as stupidly as ever, though, so maybe it’s a lost cause.)He looks from the Slytherins to Riddle, who simply flashes him his sunny grin, as if nothing at all is wrong with this picture.

“I mentioned to them at lunch that you’d generously invited me to join the Defence Association, Harry,”—and Harry very carefully does _not_ bristle at the entitled way in which Riddle tosses around his given name—“and Draco and the others were more than happy to accompany me.”

Of course.Of course Tom Riddle is on first-name terms with Malfoy.Harry wonders if they’ve conducted any more of their secret meetings; he should go back to monitoring the Map in the evenings.

“Well, Hermione has the members’ list, so you’ll have to wait until she gets here,” he tells them stiffly.

What follows is a significantly awkward pause as Harry doesn’t proceed to unlock the classroom door and the Slytherins seem to run out of serviceable small talk.Riddle just stands there, leaning carelessly against the wall, hands in pockets, as his two Beauxbâtons classmates chat quietly to each other in French.

They are saved, to Harry’s intense relief, by Fred and George, who arrive followed by Lee Jordan and, blessedly, a good number of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.

“Hi, Harry—wot, is that ickle little _Malfoy—_

“—showing up to our merry anti-Dark Arts gathering?”

“Out of the way, please!I need to unlock the classroom door for everyone!”

And there’s Hermione.She’ll be able to sort this all out, Harry thinks.

“They say they want to join the DA,” he whispers urgently to her as soon as she’s reached his side.

“Oh?”Hermione’s expression is slightly surprised, but neither as distrustful nor suspicious as Harry would have expected (or preferred).“Hello, er, Nott, Greengrass…” and she pauses ever so slightly, “Malfoy.”

“Granger,” Greengrass greets coolly.Next to her, Nott and Malfoy have already turned their backs and are whispering furiously to each other, apparently in argument.

“Well, we’re thrilled to have new members, of course,” Hermione tells them after a pause, her smile almost bright enough to be convincing.“Let’s all get settled into the classroom, shall we?”

They file in slowly, and Hermione has the new members sign up on their list.

“What, we’re just going to let them in?” Harry hisses in her ear.

“We haven’t got a choice, Harry,” Hermione whispers back heatedly.“School rules for student organizations.”She smiles perfunctorily as she hands the list over for Nott and his stupid quill to sign.

“I won’t break out in suspiciously patterned hives if I try to leave without your permission, will I?” Riddle asks as he writes down his name in a fine, neat cursive, a smile playing at his lips.

Hermione turns bright red.“W-where did you hear that?” she squeaks as Harry trudges away in disgust.

“It was the jinx of the year, from what I’m told,” Riddle replies smoothly.“The spellwork must have been devilishly tricky to weave together.I hope you’ll allow me to pick your brain some time.”

Harry’s jaw drops in astonishment as Hermione blushes deeper and enthusiastically nods her assent, starting to list the jinxes and curses from which she took inspiration.

“Is he ever not flirting?” A voice mutters wryly by Harry’s ear, and Harry looks up to see Cedric Diggory holding forward the afternoon’s roster for dueling partners.

“I… probably not,” Harry replies glumly, watching his best friend and the new boy gush over the intricacies of keying protean charms to more than one master object.

Harry takes the parchment from Cedric and skims through the match-ups, nodding in approval at Cedric’s suggested changes.

The DA has become, true to Dumbledore’s initial suggestion, more of a dueling club than anything else.Since Remus is back and, being a qualified Defence teacher (a rarity, in Harry’s improbably colorful experience), actually covers practical defensive spellcasting in class now, there is no need for Harry to really teach spells anymore.As a result, after setting up a rotation for some of the veterans to tutor struggling students, Harry and Hermione drew up a system to assign dueling partners for the bulk of the members.Hermione handles the logistics, and Harry reviews the match-ups so that those with similar levels of experience or skill are properly paired.Cedric sometimes helps him with this last bit, mostly when Harry isn’t sure about some of the seventh-years, whom he knows less well.

“Cho spent all of dinner last night following him around,” Cedric goes on, a little darkly.The tone surprises Harry, and he looks up to watch Cedric’s face.

“I’m…sorry to hear that,” Harry says, and is surprised to find that he means it. 

It had all been very awkward for a month or two last term, after Cho and Cedric’s break-up.Harry never learned the details, but looking back on it, he’s pretty certain that a large part of Cho’s buddying up to him during DA meetings after that had been motivated in part by a desire to make Cedric jealous.And Harry, flattered at the attention, had just…

Well, it’s all finished and smoothed over now; Cedric and Cho seem to have gotten over the awkwardness, Harry and Cho are friendly, and Harry and Cedric are as close to friends as someone as universally liked as Cedric can be with someone like Harry, whose personality is generally considered to be rather more abrasive.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Cedric says suddenly, his face doing something strange.

“I… know what you mean,” Harry says, weighing his words carefully and watching for Cedric’s reaction.“He seems too friendly, doesn’t he?I mean, he’s been here less than, what, forty-eight hours, and somehow the entire castle’s enamored.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Cedric backtracks, holding his hands up, eyes wide.Then he grins, sheepish.“I quite like him, to be perfectly honest.I do see what you mean about them being enamored, though.”He hooks his fingers in air quotations around the word, smiling ruefully.“We spoke a fair bit on Monday night—he had a ridiculous number of questions about Hogwarts, and apparently decided I was the person to ask—and he’ll be sitting in on my Ancient Runes class all year.Too intelligent by half, and knew exactly how to work Professor Babbling within five minutes of meeting her.”

“Did he now?”Harry doesn’t quite manage to suppress his scowl.He forgets sometimes that despite Cedric’s all-around good-guy personality, he is surprisingly clear headed and much more observant than Ron likes to give him credit for.Of course he is, given how tightly he runs the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.

Cedric grins at him.“Get to know him a bit, Potter.I think you’d get on.Come on, let’s go set up the dueling partners.”And, with a hearty clap on Harry’s shoulder, Cedric lopes over to the other side of the room to call the duelists to order so they can start assigning pair-ups.

—

The system they’ve come up with has been working beautifully, and as Harry looks around the room, from Ron and Seamus throwing leek jinxes at each other on a dueling platform to Luna dreamily (and possibly totally unhelpfully) explaining the headspace necessary to draw forth the right sorts of memories for producing a Patronus charm to a Hufflepuff seventh-year, a warm glow of pride unfurls in his chest. 

They started as an outlaw group of dissidents in a dingy pub, but they’ve come so far.Hermione had suggested only opening the DA to fifth-years and up when they were just starting back up in order to gauge how much additional interest there would be beyond the original group, but the turnout has been overwhelming enough that they’ve had to temporarily put plans for expanding down to the third-years on hold.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spies Colin Creevey catching Crabbe with a full-body bind, and he doesn’t bother to bottle up the whoop that bubbles out of his throat.Harry had originally paired all the Slytherins together in case they tried to get up to anything untoward, but upon realizing how much more advanced the old DA members are, he encouraged them to mix it up—absolutely worth it, if results like skinny little Creevey toppling a lunk twice his size are what he’ll get out of it.

It is an utter shame, then, when Harry’s musings are cut short by a now-unfamiliar voice in a wholly too-familiar tone.

“Got a whole army of mudblood sycophants running around after you telling you how amazing you are now, Potter?What’d you have to do, threaten to sic your werewolf on them?”

When Harry turns around to glare, Malfoy’s mouth is curved into a disdainful sneer.They’re about the same height now, Harry thinks; Malfoy had always been taller than him before, but Harry has done a fair amount of growing over the past few years.He’ll be as tall as his dad was, Remus sometimes likes to tell him with a fond smile on his face.

Harry feels a stab of red-hot anger at that—who is _Malfoy_ to come here and talk about _Remus_ so flippantly?Mild-mannered Remus, who’s spent almost his entire life fighting just to be treated like a person, who, even in Hogsmeade sometimes, will suffer people hurling insults like this at him and yet simply smiles back blandly like it doesn’t mean anything.

“Yeah, I figured it was cheaper than asking my dad to pay off Grindelwald so I could have an entire school’s worth of pureblood supremacists trailing after me,” Harry replies coolly, even as he itches to reach for his wand.

Malfoy’s face does something Harry has never seen before; there is none of the old haughtiness or egotism he associates with Malfoy—the pure, unadulterated hatred that has twisted itself into his expression is so visceral it almost has Harry stepping back in shock.It is only rooted instinct to stand his ground and fight against a threat that keeps him still.

“ _Don’t_ presume to know me or my relation to Grindelwald, Potter,” Malfoy spits venomously, “or you might just get what’s been coming to you.”

Harry raises a skeptical eyebrow.“Oh?And what’s been coming to me, then?”

Malfoy opens his mouth to reply, but then his eyes freeze over Harry’s shoulder, and he snaps his mouth shut, face paling.He immediately hunches in on himself.

“We aren’t finished here, Potter,” he hisses, then stalks away towards the corner where Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott are chatting in favor of doing anything DA-related.

Harry stares after him, perplexed, but he doesn’t get much time to dwell on it, because he’s just all sorts of popular among stuck-up pricks today, it seems.

“Harry.”

It’s Riddle, advancing in easy, confident strides, his wand twirling idly between his nimble fingers.

“Riddle,” Harry greets, plastering a smile onto his face as he turns around.“Can I help you?”

“Was that Draco just now?What did you say to him?He looked positively livid.”Riddle does not sound suspicious or disapproving, like Harry might have expected.Instead, he looks _amused_.

“None of your business,” Harry says shortly, still reeling a bit from Malfoy’s mercurial mood.He looks up at Riddle distrustingly.“Well?You wanted in on the DA.This is it.What do you think?”Harry glances around, thinking that even Riddle, model student that he is, must be at least a little bit impressed.

Riddle flashes Harry that same smile from when they were first introduced that night in the Great Hall.Harry no longer feels the urge to automatically smile back.

“I didn’t realize this would be a dueling club,” Riddle says slowly, casting a cool eye over the proceedings.“The others made it sound like a sort of… curricular supplement, where you were actually teaching them how to cast spells.”He looks a little disappointed.

“Well, that’s more or less what it was last year,” Harry offers.“We had a Ministry-appointed professor who didn’t believe in teaching the practical side of Defence.”

“A class in defensive magic without a practical element?What did you do, only read about theory?”Riddle looks genuinely taken aback, both eyebrows raised—almost as if he’s offended.“That’s absurd.”

In fact, he looks so offended that Harry actually cracks a smile.“Yeah, Dumbledore was away, and the interim headmistress was trying a, er, new _experimental_ curriculum, where we basically didn’t learn anything.So Hermione had the idea to start a group on the side, because—”

“Yes, but everyone says you’re the leader of the Defence Association, Harry,” Riddle interrupts with a grin in that smooth, buttery voice.There’s something intense and insistent lurking behind the playful veneer of his brown eyes.

“Y-yeah?Do they?”

“And I’m top in my year at Beauxbâtons.So let’s have a friendly duel, see how our Beauxbâtons combative magic curriculum fares against your Defence Against the Dark Arts.”He grins disarmingly, but Harry is getting better at seeing the predatory edges in his expressions now that he’s looking for them.“It’ll be fun.Cedric Diggory tells me you’re good.”

“He does?”

“Come now, Harry, this is _your_ show, as it were.Indulge me, won’t you?”He’s twirling his wand between his fingers again.

Harry frowns.“Yeah, all right.Go on, then.”He looks around for an unused platform and sees one in a far corner of the room, a good several feet behind where Fred and George are doubled up against Cedric and Angelina in what might be the flashiest duel Harry has ever seen; Fred has just flung out a spell that sets the entire platform off in something resembling multicolored firecrackers.

Well, if Riddle is as good as everyone says he is and happens to wipe the floor with Harry, then at least no one will see.Probably.

So they head over into the corner of the room, where Riddle then insists on performing all the silly formalities Harry only vaguely remembers learning.They bow, and Harry still can’t help the ridiculous urge to laugh when he bends at the waist; it always reminds him of Lockhart and Snape.He straightens back up to meet his opponent’s eye and lets that giddy urge bleed into a smirk.

“ _En garde,_ ” Riddle says, low voice carrying effortlessly, and they’re off.

Riddle opens with a standard _Impedimenta_ , which Harry deflects and follows up with a leg-locker curse.Riddle steps neatly out of the way and tosses back a _Tarantallegra_.Harry dodges left with plenty of time to spare and immediately shoots off a hair-loss curse, but Riddle throws up a shield, brow raised in amusement.

“All right, Harry, that’s the pleasantries out of the way.”His smile turns sharp, and his next spell is a stunner, much quicker than his first two salvos, and Harry barely has time to flick it aside with his own wand before countering with one of his own.Harry throws out every jinx, hex, and curse he can think of, from a second-year _Mucus ad nauseam_ to the _Confringo_ Remus only just recently introduced.Riddle parries or dodges them all, his own spells coming harder and faster at Harry all the while.

Then, Riddle steps back and conjures a flock of birds, which hurtle straight for Harry, followed immediately by a _“Omnes Duro!_ ”

Shit.A hardening spell on a flock of birds zooming right at his face?

“ _Petrificus omnes_!” Harry yells without thinking, and the expanded spell catches most of the birds; they stop in their tracks and drop like stones while the rest fly harmlessly past Harry and bury themselves into the floor.

Both boys pause, breathing heavily; Harry can practically feel his blood racing in his veins; the exhilaration at dueling someone capable of keeping up with him so perfectly, meeting his every curse with a counter-curse or shield, is entirely new to him.Which isn’t to say that his DA members aren’t good; Hermione is precise, Ginny is mischievous, the twins are creative, and Cedric is strong and dedicated, but Riddle is like all their best traits, plus Harry’s own good instincts to boot, rolled into one smirking boy.

Harry is grinning in spite of himself as Riddle straightens up, wand twirling in his hand in a familiar motion.“A shame your adjective agreement was off just now, Harry,” his mouth curling up ever so slightly.“You would’ve caught them all otherwise.Of course,” and he grins widely now, smug, “it probably would have made more sense to shield, there.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry retorts, but, like Riddle, he’s still smiling.Then he fires off a _Reducto_ , Riddle dodges and counters with a _Bombarda_ , and they’re back into it.

Harry realizes at some point that the pace has picked up significantly.He doesn’t know when it started or who’s driving it—probably both of them—but they’re flinging hexes at each other so quickly now that Harry can no longer bother to keep track of every spell Riddle is using; he’s casting mostly nonverbally by now anyway, the show-off.

Riddle’s movements are smooth, his wand like an extension of his arm as he transitions from the upwards slashing movement of a bleeder hex into the corkscrew motion he leads off a blasting curse with.The spells land around Harry in quick succession, missing him by inches, and he loses his footing as he stumbles backwards.

“ _Diffindo!_ ” Harry yells, trying to catch his balance, and then freezes when the spell connects with Riddle’s face and a spurt of red flashes through the air.

Riddle snarls and casts something back at him—Harry throws himself out of the way, but it grazes his side.Searing pain blooms at his lower ribs.He looks down to find that there’s a hole burned through his robes.

But he can’t panic; Riddle is raising his wand again.He casts something Harry doesn’t hear, and there’s no time to shout an incantation—Harry throws out the only nonverbal spell he’s consistently been able to manage in the same instant, and—

The two streams of light, one electric blue and the other a noxious purple, clash in the middle of the platform, and Harry braces for the inevitable blowback—

But it doesn’t come.The flash where the spells met glows white-hot and then bleeds to a burgeoning orb of molten gold light.The gold seeps back down the path of Harry’s _Expelliarmus_ , until the blue of his original spell is no more and has been entirely replaced by a fine, golden thread of light.His wand—it’s vibrating, and his hand is shaking along with it, his fingers locked around the handle as if the magic itself is rooting him to the wood, not allowing him to let go.

He looks up, and across from him, Riddle looks to be experiencing much the same, hunched over and gripping his wand hand with his other as if attempting to hold it steady despite how violently it shakes.And as their twin expressions of shock meet over the golden light connecting their wands, Harry sees that his earlier severing charm must have sliced clean along the ridge of Riddle’s cheekbone.A fine trail of blood drips down his face, the shock of crimson startling against the pale hollow of his cheek.

And then, as quickly as it started, it’s over; the golden thread pulses once, twice, then dissipates, fine particles diffusing out like pollen from the thread’s concentrated core into the dusty classroom air. 

Harry, nearly dropping his wand at the sudden easing of pressure, hastily grabs it in his other hand instead.Across from him, Riddle is gripping his own wand so hard his hand shakes.

“Hey, Riddle, you all right?” Harry asks, and startles at how weakly his voice leaves him.He clears his throat and tries again.

Riddle gives no sign that he’s heard Harry, instead staring at his wand like he doesn’t recognize it.A few seconds pass, and Harry sees out of the corner of his eye that other students have gathered around their platform (perhaps drawn by that strange golden light?).Then he realizes his singed robes are still smoking slightly, emitting an unpleasant burnt smell, and that he is in _so much pain_.He feels dazed, as if he’s suddenly coming up for air after holding his breath underwater for a long time.

Finally, Riddle looks up sharply.“What was that?” he demands, voice low and icy.

“What?”

“What did you just cast?”

“I—it was just a disarming charm; it’s the only nonverbal I’ve been able to do reliably so far… you mean that light wasn’t you, just now?”

“No, I cast…something else,” Riddle says, apparently deciding against letting Harry in on what nasty curse he might have been hit by if it had not been for that strange and unexpected interruption.Probably some sort of Grindelwald-worthy dark magic.

“Oh… I thought it was something you did,” Harry says, his voice still shaky.He looks at his own wand.“A… malfunction, maybe?"

Riddle raises a scornful eyebrow. "A _malfunction_?"

Harry shrugs, then winces at how it pulls at the wound in his side. "My wand sometimes acts on its own without me telling it to do anything, though it’s been a while.”

Riddle hums and then just shakes his head mutely, still frowning down at his wand.

A couple of students have rushed up to crowd around Harry on the platform, where he is only barely managing to stay standing, even as the throbbing at his ribs reaches an almost unbearable wail.One of the other two Beauxbâtons students approaches Riddle, but he waves him away with a couple of curt words in French and then carelessly wipes away the blood dripping down from the gash on his face, leaving behind a dark smear.He lets his other classmate raise her wand to his cheek to cast an _Episkey,_ and it leaves behind a faint white line, just a shade lighter than his already pale skin.

Harry blanches, seeing how close to his eye the spell hit.

“Riddle, are you— I’m so sorry, that could have been your _eye_ —”

Riddle is back to ignoring him, however, frowning down at his wand as the other Beauxbâtons boy babbles loudly at him, but then seems to give himself a shake.When he acknowledges Harry again, his warm demeanor has returned, like a cloak he’s used to shrugging on and off with ease. 

“I’m fine, Harry.These things happen in duels.”His gaze settles on Harry’s torso.“You should probably get that looked at, though.”Nose scrunched up in concern, he gestures pointedly at Harry’s side, where the edges of the hole in his robes are still smoking slightly and the skin underneath flares an angry red.Blisters are starting to form, and Harry winces at the sight of the disfigured skin, which is somehow even more alarming than the pain.

“My God, Harry,” Hermione breathes.She kneels down beside him to get a better look at the burn, then gently coaxes him down into a sitting position so that his legs dangle over the platform edge.“This looks awful!”

“I don’t think it should be that bad,” Riddle’s voice comments from somewhere above them.“It was a Salamander Flame, which burns much less hot at the edges than at the center of the spell trajectory than a regular _Incendio_ , and you dodged the brunt of it.It should heal up just fine with the right medical attention.”

“So you’re saying if I _hadn’t_ dodged, it _would_ have burned a hole straight through me, like you intended?” Harry asks incredulously.

“We need to get you to the hospital wing to have this looked at,” Hermione announces firmly, brow creased, and Harry looks back down to the swelling flesh of the burn, grimacing.“In the meantime…”She raises her head and calls to ask if anyone is carrying any dittany on them.

By some miracle, Neville rushes forward.“I was actually meant to deliver this batch from the greenhouses over to Madam Pomfrey earlier in the afternoon, but I guess it isn’t so bad to be forgetful on occasion,” he says shyly, handing over one of the small bottles tucked into in his school bag.

“Thanks, Neville,” Harry says gratefully as Hermione tips a small amount onto her fingers and presses it tenderly into the burn.Harry hisses through his teeth, but the sting lasts only a few moments, and his eyes widen as he realizes that the pain has receded almost immediately to a faint throb, the redness dulling into a dusty mauve.It is as if the wound is already weeks old.

“Merlin, that’s amazing.We should look into getting a stock of this to keep on hand for meetings,” he says thoughtfully, marveling at how much better he's already feeling.“Thanks for thinking so quickly, Hermione, I really owe you one.”

“Thank Neville, not me,” Hermione replies, though she is clearly pleased at Harry’s acknowledgement.“As long as you drop by Madam Pomfrey before dinner to get some more specialized treatment, you should be fine.It won’t even scar.”Her expression hardens then, and she whips around, looking like she’s ready to start shouting a lecture worthy of McGonagall, but finds herself staring at Riddle’s two Beauxbâtons classmates instead of him; Riddle has disappeared.

“What, did he just _run away_ after he almost burned Harry’s lung out of his chest?” She looks about ready to have a conniption.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad, Hermione… and you’ve made sure it won’t turn into anything serious,” Harry protests, feeling a little put out— _as if_ he would have let Riddle burn a hole through him—even as he exults at having Hermione back on side.If he had known that all it would take was jumping in front of a hex, he would have proposed a duel ages ago.

“‘Ee said he waz going to zee anfeerm’ree,” the freckled Beauxbâtons boy with curly hair Riddle hadn’t allowed to heal his face informs them.

“To where?”Harry and Hermione ask together; his accent is even thicker than Fleur Delacour’s.

“He means the infirmary,” his classmate with the ash-brown hair, the girl who cast the _Episkey_ , translates for him.“You call it the hospital wing here, don’t you?Although…”She trails off, frowning contemplatively.Her accent is much, much lighter than the boy’s; but for the occasional way her vowels are somehow briefer than they should be, it’s almost unnoticeable, though she probably couldn’t pass for a native speaker.

“You should go, too, Potter; that looked painful.”She eyes Harry’s faded burn, her fine brows furrowed into something like disapproval.“Sorry about that.He normally doesn’t lash back like that when he gets hit.I think you must have caught him off guard.Well done, that really isn’t easy.”

“Lulu!” The freckled boy cries at her, looking scandalized.He mutters something else in rapid-fire French, and she replies with an impatient sneer.Harry stares questioningly between them, but they seem to have forgotten him, and then the boy unceremoniously yanks the girl towards the classroom door.

Just like that, they, like Riddle, are gone.

“Right, then,” Harry says gingerly.He glances at the clock on the wall; there’s about half an hour left before dinner.“I’d best be off to see Madam Pomfrey, just in case.You all right with this lot, Hermione?”

“Of course,” she sniffs, then smiles warmly.“Who do you think I am?”

—

The next day in first-period Double Defence, Riddle drops down into the empty seat next to Harry’s as if he belongs there.

Harry gapes at him as he nonchalantly crosses one long leg smoothly over the other and lays out a neat roll of parchment on his side of the desk.The faint scar from Harry’s severing charm is already gone, leaving his pale skin completely unblemished; Madam Pomfrey must have gotten rid of it for him.

“You can’t sit here!That’s for Ron or Hermione!” Harry hisses, dropping his quill.

Riddle glances at him, unimpressed.“Really, Harry?Are you a primary schooler?This is no way to treat a foreign guest with practical diplomatic status.”He leans back in his chair, making no move to leave.

“You aren't _my_ guest; _I_ don’t owe you anything.”

“Your behavior towards me reflects badly on Wizarding Britain, you know.”Riddle leans his jaw on the heel of his palm, his pale, slender fingers curling elegantly over the jut of a sharp cheekbone as he watches Harry through half-lidded eyes. _He’s teasing me,_ Harry realizes, horrified.

“Well, lucky we’ve got you to make up for that, then, since, as you keep reminding us at every possible turn, you’re actually _English,_ ” he bites out.

Riddle just smiles serenely, apparently amused.“Why so antagonistic, Harry?Do you dislike me?We’re a good match, if our duel yesterday was anything to go by.You kept up with me where no one else would have." He leans in, and his voice drops a register. "We should practice together more.I think we could be good friends.”

“Y-you think _that duel_ is a good basis to be friends on?You tried to burn a hole through my chest with Salamander Fire!I looked that up afterwards, and the core of a Salamander Fire hex is five times as hot as an ordinary _Incendio!_ I’m lucky I’m fine and free of any lasting issues, let alone _alive_.”Harry tries to surreptitiously scoot his chair away, but it screeches loudly against the wooden floor.

“And you nearly took out my eye,” Riddle counters breezily.He shrugs, a careless yet somehow still elegant lift of a shoulder.“It was a duel in a controlled setting.We’re both fine, aren’t we?”

“Unlike yours, my aim was an accident, and unlike you, I apologized for it.”

“Would you like an apology?” Riddle asks.He looks surprised.

“Well, yeah.But I… don’t think you’d actually mean it,” Harry accuses before he can stop himself.He doesn’t realize until the words are out of his mouth that they’re probably true.

Riddle’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and suddenly he’s smiling, gaze sharpened with a laser focus, the expression completely unlike the canned pretty ones Harry has gotten used to seeing from him over the past couple of days.This fits his face even better, somehow.

“You must really dislike me, Harry, to accuse me of such a thing,” Riddle says smoothly, not looking even the slightest bit offended.If anything, there’s an excitement—almost a predatory eagerness—there that Harry hasn’t seen before. 

“I don’t _dislike_ you, Riddle,” Harry retorts automatically, and then, feeling as if he should qualify that with something, because even he knows how notoriously poor a liar he is, “I just don’t particularly _like_ you much.I’ve no reason to, really.”

Riddle cocks his head, eyes still locked with Harry’s.Rather distressingly, his smile broadens.“You’re an awful liar, Harry Potter, did you know that?”

“Yeah, everyone tells me so.I figure I can just keep practicing on you.”

And Riddle laughs, deep and rich, the sound sending a pleasant shiver tingling down Harry’s spine.

He determinedly ignores it and slams open his Defence textbook as Remus walks in to start class.


	6. Chapter 5: Snitches and Spooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry demonstrates beyond all doubt that he is in fact a reckless Gryffindor, generally feels exasperation towards skinny pale Slytherin boys, and then bonds with the dogdad-goddads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal thanks again to [Artemis1219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1219/pseuds/Artemis1219) for her input on this chapter!

5.1 The Exhibition Match

Harry runs his eyes over his team and shares a nod with them. 

Angelina, Katie, Fred and George: all in their final year, and with only a single match with which to cap off their legacy.They’ve all either been on reserve or already playing on the regular team since their second year—around for every match Harry has ever played, and he feels he owes it to them to make sure that they cap off their Hogwarts careers with the Cup draped in Gryffindor colors.They’ll be difficult to replace next year (assuming the Ministry doesn’t find some other dumb reason to cancel Quidditch), and Harry doesn’t much fancy the thought of flying with an almost completely new team. 

Of course, Cedric is also in his final year, and Harry does feel a little bit of a guilty twinge there, but… this is his team, the one he’s grown up with.He owes them at least this much.Sirius and Remus are both here to watch, and Angelina even said that Wood had written her to say that he would come watch if he could fit it into his practice schedule with Puddlemere.

“All right, team,” Harry says.He’s never been one for speeches like this, but for this team—his dream team—it feels like they deserve something.He looks from Angelina to Katie, to Fred and George, to Ron, and finally to Ginny. 

“You all know I’m crap with speeches, but this is our team.We’ve played through every sodding ridiculous circumstance together—a jinxed broom, dementors in a storm—”

“—a deboning,” supplies George, smirking, no doubt recalling the look of Harry’s comically flapping arm—

“Er, yeah, that too—shut up—the point is!” Harry says, feeling himself turn red.“The point is, this is the best team I’ve ever flown with, and this is the team I wanted a full season with, more than any other.”He looks back at each of them in turn, meeting their eyes meaningfully, and nods grimly.“So let’s win this.”

They all nod decisively back at him, expressions serious, and then, together, they all exit the locker room and walk out to meet the Hufflepuff team in the middle of the pitch.

Cedric cracks the smallest smile, which Harry feels himself return.They shake hands, Cedric’s grip warm and firm against Harry’s own perpetually clammy palm, and then Madam Hooch is raising her whistle to her lips, and they’re up in the air.

Harry pulls all the way up above the action, where Ginny immediately snatches the Quaffle from under Zacharias Smith’s nose.He makes a lazy loop around the pitch, eyes scouring the field for a telltale sign of gold.A couple of feet below him on the other end, Cedric is going through similar motions, but Harry can see by the set of his shoulders that he hasn’t seen what they’re looking for, either, and that this isn’t going to be one of those quickly decided games.

A bludger whizzing straight by his ear brings him to sudden attention, and he shoots a dirty look in the direction it flew in from.Well, if the Hufflepuffs want a game with the opposing Seeker wreaking havoc with all their formations, that’s what they’re going to get, Harry thinks, resolving to keep an eye on Cedric’s movements as he signals to Angelina and descends seamlessly into their Chaser formation.

—

He pulls back from the action once it becomes clear the Snitch is going to be the deciding factor. 

Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are neck and neck in points; while Hufflepuff’s Chasers work a little better together—they’ve been flying together longer, as opposed to the Gryffindor team, where Angelina and Katie are still adapting to Ginny’s style—no other set of Beaters can compare to Fred and George’s teamwork, which keeps the point spread relatively even.

The match will come entirely down to Harry.And as soon as he thinks it, a flash of gold catches his eye, hovering just above the visiting schools’ box. 

It’s the Snitch.Harry casts a furtive eye about the field, scanning for Cedric’s position; he’s closer—by the Gryffindor goal posts—but busy distracting the twins from targeting the Hufflepuff chasing formation.Harry drifts carefully in that direction.If he can just…

He manages to catch Ginny’s eye from where she’s playing support to Angelina and Katie on a two-pronged steal attempt and flips his fingers in the new signaling system they’ve been working on as he subtly lets himself gain height.She nods back once, then leans down the handle of her broom and barrels straight for the center of the action at full speed, red hair streaming behind her.

A gasp ripples around the stands at the daring move, and Harry takes the opportunity to zoom off towards the Snitch, bearing down to get more speed.It’s still floating above the visitors’ box, but seems to be zig-zagging a lazy path lower, closer to the seats now. 

He dares to sneak a glance in Cedric’s direction and swears as he catches the precise moment Cedric’s surprised expression turns calculating and he rises immediately out of his current formation with his beaters, eyes darting urgently around the field.

 _Too obvious,_ Harry thinks, gritting his teeth.No seeker worth their salt would lose more than a second to a ploy like that.But it might just be the second he needs.Harry leans down, chin almost touching his broom handle, and bolts for the Snitch with everything he has.The wind howls against his ears, lashing through his hair and whipping against his robes, and Harry is glad, not for the first time, that he’s taken to asking Hermione to Imperturb his glasses before every match (they’d shattered under a particularly rough assault by a bludger in fourth year), for the additional protection they provide his eyes when he’s flying all out like this. 

The Snitch is cresting even lower now, and Harry has a fuzzy impression of patches of midnight blue and crimson red moving indistinctly in the background and also of both Lee and Luna commentating at the same time, in markedly different cadences, but he puts it all out of his mind. 

He’s accelerating still; he can feel by the way the air distorts on his left that Cedric is closing in… but it’s just a bit farther, if he can just—and there’s a flash of yellow in his peripheral vision. 

It’s Cedric, approaching too quickly from a directly perpendicular angle, and it’s no good; Cedric started too much closer, and Harry is still too far away.He urges his Firebolt forward again, his teeth gritted against the wind tearing at the skin of his face—he’s going to crash straight into the stands if he doesn’t stop—and before his brain has even begun to process the decision—

Harry leaps, arms outstretched, and for a split second, he’s hyper aware of every single detail around him, as if the world is moving in slow motion: Cedric’s gray eyes widening to the size of saucers, pupils contracted to the size of pinpricks in the glaring morning sun, as he realizes what Harry’s doing; the Durmstrang and Beauxbâtons spectators scrambling to throw themselves out of the way, their robes swirling in flashes of blue and red; the brilliant green of the lawn below; and the glint of gold just hovering there, right in front of—

His hand closes around the cold metal of the Snitch just as Cedric’s fingertips graze over the knobbly row of his knuckles, and then Harry’s body, spurred on by the combined momentum of his Firebolt and his reckless jump, shoots headfirst like a projectile into the stands of the visiting students’ box.

He rolls, raising his arms to protect his head; wood shatters deafeningly around him, its creaking mixing with students’ panicked yelling as Harry tumbles along the floor of the stands and crashes into the wall with a sickening thud. 

He thinks he hears something inside him crack ominously.Bright and dark spots dot his vision, fighting for dominance.It feels as if there’s fuzz blocking out his ears.

And then suddenly, there are warm, firm hands on him, pulling him onto his back.Various shouts of _Harry_ and _Potter_ assault his ears.

Harry groans.

“ _Potter!_ ”That’s Cedric’s voice, definitely.He thinks he might recognize others, too, but the sounds are all blurring in his head…

Harry dares to crack open an eye, and…oh, his Imperturbed glasses have managed to survive the impact, but there are little bits of splintered wood sprinkled all over his robes and buried in his Quidditch greaves.Overhead, a bright yellow blob hovers against a background of blues and reds.His entire face feels numb, and the world tilts precariously around him.There’s an insistent buzzing in his ears.He squeezes his eyes shut again.

“Out, _away!GET OUT OF THE WAY!_ ”The shrill blast of a whistle.“Potter, can you hear me?”Harry feels a couple of drops of spittle land on his face and grimaces; it’s Madam Hooch.He opens his mouth to tell her he’s fine but only manages another groan.

A cool wave of magic washes over him, then, and he blinks as the dizziness suddenly evaporates.Harry blinks open his eyes and sits up, looking around.He’s ended up in the far corner of the visiting students’ box, with Madam Hooch and Cedric hunched over him, brows creased in concern.Cedric is holding both his own broom as well as Harry’s Firebolt, and Harry feels a rush of gratitude. 

“ _What_ did you just do, young man?” Hooch barks at something over his head.

“Caprillaean Charm for…cerebral contusions?I’m not certain what the correct terminology is in English,” a familiar low voice answers.“We were approaching the time limit for effectiveness, and after a landing like that… well, there wasn’t going to be any harm in it.”Harry startles; that’s _Tom Riddle’s_ voice, and he whips around to see Riddle standing behind him, his long, pale wand twirling idly in his nimble fingers.

“Oh, are you licensed to cast that?” Hooch asks, sounding impressed.

“Yes, Ma’am, I have a license.”

“What—what did he just do?Did he just cast magic on me without my consent?” Harry demands, running a hand through his hair to shake out the wood pieces.

“Preliminary Anti-Concussion Charm,” Hooch says briskly.Then, reaching out to pat Harry clinically down his limbs, she explains further: “only works within the first ninety seconds of impact and horrifically easy to muck up—especially if used on someone not actually suffering any brain trauma—but bloody useful if correctly performed.How many eyes do I have, Potter?”

In lieu of answering, Harry leaps up to his feet and raises a surprisingly steady fist.In it, the Snitch struggles feebly, one translucent wing bent awkwardly while the other flutters back and forth like a proud pixie.

Hooch rolls her eyes dramatically but calls the match with another blast of her whistle, and six blurs of red slam into Harry.

He is raised into the air, perched on the knees of his team, which should be totally frightening since if he loses his footing and falls, he’ll crack his skull open and die, but right now, riding the high of victory, he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

5.2 Hogsmeade

The atmosphere in Hogsmeade that afternoon is festive; the sun beams down from a bright blue sky, there are more visitors about than usual owing to the match, and almost every student third year and up is out.Most of the visiting students are gathered in a large group with Louisa MacDonald, the Head Girl, as she takes them on a short tour of the main sights.

After yet another impromptu visit to see Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing (“Really, Mr. Potter, it isn’t that I don’t enjoy your company, but I would much prefer to see less of you!”) to ensure that his Quidditch stunt didn’t break anything and that the impact hasn’t left any lingering damage in or on his head, Harry is headed to meet up with Ron and Hermione at Honeydukes, said head aflutter with thoughts of chocolate wands, peppermint toads, and treacle fudge.

Which really makes it a shame that he walks straight into Malfoy just as the other boy is coming out of the bookshop on the high street.

“Potter,” comes Malfoy’s sneering voice, and Harry has to summon a supreme strength of will to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Malfoy.”

“Recovered from your pathetic, desperate stunt this morning?Your usual mudblood club not giving you enough attention lately?”

Harry takes a deep breath and tries to imagine himself as even-keeled Moony. 

“What is your problem?You do realize we don’t _have_ to interact just because you’re here for the Tournament.Just leave me alone, and I am more than happy to stay out of your way,” he says, even though it’s absolutely not the truth; he’s been watching the Map nightly, but so far, neither Malfoy nor Riddle has taken another nighttime stroll.

The corners of Malfoy’s mouth turn down, and then his face suddenly hardens in a determination Harry hasn’t seen on it before.He grabs Harry’s upper arm, some emotion flickering through his eyes too quickly for Harry to process.He tries to shake Malfoy off, but his grip is surprisingly firm.

“Listen, Potter—”

“Don’t you have something you should be doing, Draco?” Tom Riddle says smoothly, and both Harry and Malfoy jump.Malfoy lets go of Harry’s arm immediately.

Harry whips around to see that Riddle has suddenly (and rather creepily) appeared at his shoulder.It’s a Saturday and warm under the sun, and so they should all be in casual weekend clothes, but for some reason, Riddle is wearing a hooded traveling cloak.

There’s a moment of oddly tense silence as Harry watches Riddle and Malfoy watch each other.Malfoy opens his mouth for a moment, as if to say something, but then he snaps it shut again.His eyes dart assessingly between Harry and Riddle, and then away again.Finally, after what feels like an age, he draws up his shoulders, turns dramatically on his heel, and stalks off.

Harry stares after him, thoroughly amazed.

“Really, Harry, _Malfoy_?” Riddle says.

“Piss off, Riddle.”Then Harry decides he may as well take this opportunity as presented to him.“What was that?What is this… _thing_ going on between you and him?Why was that so… _weird_ just now?” he asks suspiciously.

“Please,” Riddle scoffs, nose wrinkling.“He isn’t worth my time.Or yours, for that matter.”

There are so many levels of entitlement and hypocrisy baked into that statement—not to mention that it’s just so blatantly a lie—it takes Harry a moment to decide how to respond.“Well, he’s clearly worth _yours_ ,” he spits.

“Whatever can you mean?” Riddle’s brown eyes widen in false innocence.

And Harry… can’t say what he really wants to without giving away his after-hours snooping, of course.“You spend an awful lot of time with him and his Slytherins to be telling me he isn’t worth your time or mine,” he replies testily.“Bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Are you monitoring my social activities?I’m touched.”He leans down into Harry’s space, their noses suddenly mere inches apart.Harry can feel Riddle’s breath against his own lips, and he jerks back, face burning.

“What are you _doing?_ ” He squeaks.“You just _breathed_ on me!Do you not have any concept of personal space in France?”

Riddle only smiles sharply and straightens back up to his full height.“I didn’t mean to upset you.And Draco Malfoy is a Durmstrang student, not a Slytherin.But what’s wrong with spending time with Slytherins?Do you have something against them?”

“ _No_ ,” he bites out, even though he does; they’re all dark wizards whose families would’ve joined Grindelwald in a heartbeat if Grindelwald were less paranoid about who he let join his ranks.“I just—” and Harry has to physically grab onto the insides of his pockets to keep his hands from flying into his hair in frustration.He takes three more generous steps back so he doesn’t have to crane his neck up quite so much to meet Riddle’s smug, honeyed gaze, and glares.

“Why, Harry, are you _jealous_ that I’m spending time with Malfoy and the Slytherins instead of you and your Gryffindors?Don’t tell me you’ve been missing me.I’ll sit with you tonight at dinner to make it up to you.”

“What— _NO,_ don’t do that.”

Riddle cocks his head.“No?Then you should join us at the center table.I'm sure my friends would appreciate the chance to properly meet you, Harry.The great Harry Potter, only known survivor of the Killing Curse,” he adds, tone subtly mocking.That infuriatingly smug smirk is playing at the corners of his lips. 

Riddle has for some reason decided, ever since the duel, to drop his carefully curated persona of polite charm in favor of this more overbearing and caustic one when he’s alone with Harry.Harry checked in with Hermione, Ron, and even Cedric and Lavender Brown, but it seems that Riddle has yet to grace anyone else with this particular iteration of his delightful personality.(“ _What_ are you talking about, Harry—he’s the nicest boy anyone has ever met!Are you sure you’re not just jealous that everyone likes him better than you?” Lavender had said to him yesterday at lunch.) 

“It was my mother’s spell—she’d been experimenting with emotion-based magic; everyone knows that,” Harry says, rote and sullen.“All her research notes went up in flames with the house, and I don’t have the secrets to the spell etched into the skin of my back or anything creepy like that.”

Riddle’s nose wrinkles in disgust.“Well, that’s horrifically morbid and also suspiciously specific; why do you think I would imagine something like that?”

“It’s a question I got from a Boy-Who-Lived enthusiast one time,” Harry says shortly.

Riddle hums, making a noise that might pass as sympathetic, but might equally pass as (and much more likely is) derisive.“Not a very useful sort of fame, is it?To be known for your dead mother’s lost magical experiments.”

“…You do realize that’s a horribly insensitive thing to say, don’t you?Is this your way of goading me into a rematch after Wednesday?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, after the sort of morning you just had.”

“Yeah, about that,” Harry says heatedly, “ _what_ did you do to me after the match this morning?”

“Were you not paying attention when your referee explained, Harry?It was an Anti-Concussion Charm.”

“Yeah, and I heard when she said that you need a license and that it’s really easy to muck up, and yet you did it anyway.”Harry squints suspiciously.“Do you actually have a license to cast that?”

“Of course.I obtained a license for preliminary healing of non-superficial physical traumas when I became co-captain of my dueling club at Beauxbâtons last year.I had to take a test and everything.It was all very official.”

“What, here in England, too?”

“No, in France, of course.”

“And the license transfers over for use here in the U.K.?”

Riddle shrugs.

“So you _don’t_ have a license for here, then!And what exactly happens if you _do_ muck up that spell?”

“I’ve never witnessed the effects firsthand, but I’ve read that a miscast Caprillaean can, on occasion, cause permanent brain damage.”

“And you just cast it on me on the spur of the moment like that!?”Harry can barely contain his outrage.

“I healed your concussion, Harry.Really, you ought to be grateful.”There’s a trace of irritation in his voice now, the slightest hint of a crease in his impeccable brows.

“Yeah, right.I still remember when you tried to kill me with fire, oh, _three days ago_ ,” Harry mutters, scuffing at the dirt path with his shoes.He crosses his arms.“What kinds of spells are you throwing at each other in dueling to need a license like that, anyway?”

Another shrug, this time accompanied by the return of that slow, smug grin.“As you just said, I think you’ve experienced exactly the kind, Harry,” and his eyes fall to the spot on Harry’s ribs where the burn only so recently healed.Harry automatically brings his hands up to cover the area in some sort of instinctive reaction, even though it’s a useless gesture.

“Relax, you're plenty healed by now, no?”

Harry says nothing, mouth set in a frown, even though he is, in fact, completely healed.

“Diggory tells me you won’t be entering the Tournament,” Riddle says, then.

“No, my godparents don’t want me to do it,” Harry answers rotely as he’s been doing all week, thrown by the sudden change in conversation topic.“And I’m going to respect their wishes.”

Riddle regards him coolly.“Pity,” he says.“You would’ve been an interesting opponent.”

“What, you sound like you think you’ll definitely be chosen as a champion,” Harry notes, frowning.

“That’s because I will be,” Riddle declares with such an air of smug self-assuredness Harry wants to punch him.“I’m the best Beauxbâtons has seen for generations.”

Harry feels his jaw drop, then closes it with a snap.“Do you often talk about yourself like this in front of other people?” He asks incredulously.“And they still voluntarily spend time with you in spite of it?”

“And you’d be chosen, too, if you entered your name,” Riddle continues, just as carelessly, completely ignoring Harry’s questions.

“What?No, I wouldn’t be.There are loads of other students who, I dunno, are better at magic, or however else the champions get chosen.”

Riddle just watches Harry silently, his dark eyes boring down into Harry’s for an uncomfortably long moment.

“Oh, there he is—Harry!” 

Harry turns around in relief.It’s Angelina and Katie.

“Harry, we need your help to—Oh, hi, Riddle!”Katie stops short and waves.

“Johnson, Bell,” Riddle greets pleasantly as he pastes on the charming smile with alarming rapidity."You played a beautiful match today.Don’t worry, I shan’t keep Harry from you.I was meaning to go join Draco Malfoy, seeing as he promised to show me more of this lovely British wizarding settlement.It was good seeing you.”He nods politely to both girls, then walks away to join Malfoy where he’s now loitering at the corner of the street with a couple of sixth- and seventh-year Slytherins.

Harry sidles after him a little, trying to hear even just a snatch of what they’re saying, but all he catches before Riddle and Malfoy break away from the group and move too far away is Riddle asking lightly, as he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt under his cloak, “Any news on that little favor we were discussing, Draco?”

“I hope they kill each other,” Harry mutters, watching the shadows of their long silhouettes wander away into a side street where all there is of note is an old antique bookshop and a dingy little teahouse whose better days have long passed.He’s about to take out his Invisibility Cloak when Angelina grabs him by the arm.

“Harry!Please, please, please come with us to pick out snacks and drinks for tonight.We were thinking Bombardas all around, so we’ll need plenty of firewhisky and butterbeer, but aside from that, I really need you to help me collar Fred and George; I think they’re planning on selling their joke toys at the party, and they’ll be sure to try and abuse our budget."

“Yeah, sure—” Harry starts to say, and then swears, noting the time on the clock hanging in the bookshop display.Bleeding Riddle and his pushy questions—Harry had completely lost track.

“Actually, sorry, I need to go meet Sirius and Remus for lunch,” he amends as Angelina’s face falls.“But you’re plenty experienced at twin-wrangling yourself!” he says quickly.“And I wouldn’t be any help anyway; you’re better off recruiting Hermione for something like that.She’ll keep them busy enough—also, can you please apologize for me to her and Ron that I never made it to Honeydukes and that I’ll see them in the afternoon?I’m so sorry, but I’ll catch you lot later!”

—

“They’re going to be talking about that catch for ages,” Sirius gushes as he shoves a large tumbler of butterbeer over to Harry and settles back down in his seat with a glass of mead for himself and Remus each.Then he frowns, expression morphing into a scowl.“Damn near sent me to an early grave, that stunt you pulled.”

Harry flushes.“It…was a bit mad, I guess?” he says, a little shy.

“Yes, we know,” Remus says, wry, but his smile is proud.“We were all watching.”

They chat about Harry’s classes, his friends at school, the generalities of the Triwizard Tournament and how little anyone actually knows about how it’s going to work (“Totally absurd; can’t believe they’re really going to go through with it,” growls Sirius darkly), and Harry relaxes easily into the easy rhythm of conversation with Sirius and Remus.

They had shown back up in his life suddenly after a nearly nine-year absence the summer after his first year: Harry’s godfathers, whom he hadn’t seen since before Wormtail’s betrayal that awful Halloween night the year Harry had turned three, finally reunited with him.By the time Dumbledore had gotten them back from the pits of Castle Nurmengard’s dungeons, Harry could barely even remember them beyond the faintest of impressions—Sirius’s loud, throaty laugh and the wild, woodsy smell always clinging to Remus—and most distinctly, a feeling of security, of being warm and _safe._ Now, he recalls with painful clarity the pure emotion, the _hope_ that had twisted in his newly turned twelve-year-old chest on that day upon seeing them again in that white, sterile-feeling Ministry briefing room.

Sirius had wanted to swoop in and adopt him then and there, to take him far, far away from the Dursleys, with whom Harry had spent the intervening years.But the Office of Magical Intelligence and Counterintelligence had not allowed it; Sirius and Remus had both spent far too long in Grindelwald’s cells not to be put through a rigorous vetting process.The wait during Harry’s second year for the bureaucracy to run its course had been excruciating.

But they’re here now. They’ve been here for almost three and a half years, and they’re sharing a heaping dish of Madam Rosmerta’s finest pot roast with Harry while Harry tells them about the way Crabbe crashed heavily to the floor after Colin Creevey had gotten him with a full body-bind in their last DA meeting and about how Fleur Delacour looked at Zacharias Smith with a mixture of pity and disgust when he’d sauntered up to her at dinner the previous night.Sirius throws his head back and laughs in that deep, sharp way of his, and Remus chuckles merrily, indulgent.The conversation slowly drifts over to the topic of the visiting students. 

Harry hesitates, considering the best way to approach what he wants to talk about, and then just decides to go for the direct approach:

“Ron, Hermione, and I think one of the visiting Beauxbâtons students is a Parselmouth,” Harry says, glancing nervously around at the merry patrons of The Three Broomsticks even though he knows Remus’s _Muffliato_ is more reliable than solid brick.

Sirius’s eyes widen comically as Remus frowns.

“A Parselmouth, from France?” Sirius asks as Remus says, “Which one?”

“Tom Riddle,” Harry says, looking meaningfully at Remus.

“He did tell me that his family’s English,” Remus allows, expression taking on a very Hermione-esque cast.“This is the Beauxbâtons boy sitting in on my sixth-year N.E.W.T. class—the same one we saw Harry talking to outside the bookshop earlier,” he adds for the benefit of Sirius, who “ahs” in acknowledgement and then smirks for some reason. 

“Excellent student,” Remus goes on.“Very bright.You should see the essay he wrote me on historic classifications of the Dark Arts in the West; terrifically insightful, and he’s an excellently persuasive writer.”He looks up at Harry, his gaze turning shrewd.“And what makes you think he’s a Parselmouth, Harry?”

“I, er, heard him making weird hissing noises in an abandoned corridor down in the dungeons.When I was headed to the kitchens,” he adds, hopefully credibly.

“Hissing noises?” Sirius asks, eyebrow raised, and Harry describes the way it had sounded to him that night, now feeling less silly about it after what Hermione said about pythons.

“The last real known Parselmouth was Salazar Slytherin himself, wasn’t it?” Sirius muses.“There are stories about Parselmouths popping up in the Americas around the time of the founding of Ilvermorny, but it’s never been confirmed to the satisfaction of the academics.”

“Well, Slytherin’s line survived through the Gaunts, right?” Harry hedges.“Hermione and I looked into it, and there are rumors that some of them were Parselmouths.”Hermione had tackled their little research project with single-minded gusto after the dueling incident on Wednesday afternoon; among other things, they found that Slytherin’s blood had in fact survived, through a female line; it was the main male line that had died off within a few generations.

“The Gaunts?” Sirius scoffs.“They claimed a lot of things.They were probably the very worst example of Pureblood rot…and that really is saying something.”

“What do you know about them?” Harry asks excitedly.“We couldn’t find anything recent on them in any of the Pureblood anthologies or genealogy compendiums.”

“That’s because there likely isn’t anything left to record.They were a right awful lot, steeped in the Dark Arts for as long back as anyone remembers.The only thing they’re good for in this day and age is inbreeding, if they’re even around anymore.Pretty much disappeared off the books by the early 19th century.Too much marrying between siblings and all that.”

Harry blanches at the thought, and worse, the flippant way in which Sirius said it.

“Well, the inbred state of pureblood wizarding society aside, your description _is_ a pretty good approximation of how larger snakes sound,” Remus comments, expression contemplative.“I had a run-in with a nest of Runespoors in West Africa once, and they do more or less sound like what you described, especially when angry. Hermione always manages to impress me with the breadth of her knowledge.”His voice is warm, with a note of pride.“But he seems like a perfectly charming young man to me; he’s been nothing but pleasant and engaging both inside and outside of class.”

“Well, _I_ think he’s definitely dodgy; he tried to get me through the chest with a Salamander Fire curse during our DA meeting this past Wednesday.”

This revelation meets with no minor amount of alarm; Sirius stands up so quickly he almost upsets his drink.Even the now mostly empty dish of pot roast sitting at the center of the table rattles worryingly for a moment.

“But I got him back!Er, well, I got him first.Misfired a _Diffindo_ and almost took his eye out.By accident, though, which his spell wasn’t.And I’m fine—Neville had Dittany on him, and then Madam Pomfrey patched me right up afterwards.”

“Oh, so it was in retaliation?” Sirius says airily, and sits back down (a little too readily, Harry thinks), though Remus still looks vaguely disapproving.

“The DA meets Wednesday afternoons…weren’t you sat next to him in class during the Thursday morning double?” Remus asks.“I was under the impression you were getting on well when I walked in.He was laughing at a joke you made, wasn’t he?”

“He sat down next to me, not the other way around!I told him to piss off, and he laughed at me.”

“And you were talking to him outside the bookstore before,” Sirius adds.

“He…saw me talking to Malfoy and, er, told Malfoy to go away, more or less.And said I shouldn’t waste my time with him.And then just was generally smug and irritating until Angelina found me and rescued me.”

Remus’s left eyebrow rises perilously close to his hairline, and Sirius makes a sound not unlike a strangled cough.

“What?”

“Nothing,” they reply together, very quickly.

“But he is!Dodgy, I mean.”

“Right,” says Sirius, sharing a glance with Remus.

“I’m serious,” Harry starts to say, then immediately snaps his mouth shut, only realizing he’s fallen into the familiar trap after the words have left his mouth.“Don’t say it!” He cries, though his lips are already quirking upwards against his will.

“Say what?” Sirius asks, shit-eating grin twisting his face into an expression eerily reminiscent of Riddle’s smug look when he’d leaned down right into Harry’s face earlier.Harry’s train of thought immediately and inexplicably leaves him. 

“Erm,” he says, very intelligently.

“Yes, Padfoot,” Remus jumps in, ever reliable, “we all know you’re the seriousest of them all,” and pats his partner’s hand condescendingly.

“But Harry,” continues Remus, turning back to him with a slight frown, “back to the Parseltongue.That _is_ a fairly se—I mean, _grievous_ thing to accuse someone of.”(Sirius smirks; Remus rolls his eyes.)“Parseltongue has always been associated with the darkest of the Dark Arts.Can you really be sure that’s what it was?He really seems like a lovely young man.And you clearly get on well enough.”

“I don’t get on with him,” Harry retorts mulishly, because really, he doesn’t.Riddle just gets in his space and talks to him until Harry can figure out some sort of way to gracefully exit the situation.Sirius is still wearing that _very_ amused grin.

“And no, obviously, I can’t be sure about the Parseltongue, since apparently no one who’s heard it spoken in living memory has bothered to make records of what it sounds like…. But also, Riddle’s been having secret conversations with Malfoy in the dungeons after hours,” Harry reveals grudgingly, knowing that he’ll need to come clean about sneaking around after Malfoy now.

Both his godfathers’ eyes widen: Sirius’s in keen interest, as if he’s caught the scent-trail of prey, and Remus’s in indignation, because Harry had promised both him _and_ Dumbledore he’d lay off the nighttime wandering.

“I’ve been watching the Map!”

“Is that all you’ve been doing?” Remus and Sirius ask together in eerie unison.

“I—” and Harry’s rehearsed story dies on his tongue without his permission.Merlin, he really is incapable of lying to them properly.He sighs in defeat.“No, I took out the Cloak so I could go try and eavesdrop, but they were done by the time I reached the dungeons, and only Riddle was still hanging about… which is also when I saw him hissing.”

Remus turns his face heavenward, a large hand coming to pinch at the bridge of his nose.Then he looks back at Harry.“Right, Harry.Do we have to have this conversation, really?Will there be any _point_?I don’t particularly want to make good on my threat to confiscate the Map again, but I will if you continue to make poor choices like this.”

“It was suspicious!”

“You could simply have told me, or Professor McGonagall, or any other teacher, really, the next day.”

“I found out about the Parseltongue, didn’t I?”

“Which we aren’t sure about.You said it yourself; we have no records about what it sounds like, and Riddle was wandering the dungeons.”He pauses, frowning.“Why would he have been speaking it in the first place?Were there any snakes about for him to be chatting with?”

“Well, no, but it was the Slytherin side of the dungeons!They have, er… snake statues?And carvings.Maybe he could talk to those?”At Sirius and Remus’s blank looks, he tries another tack.“Or, maybe Parseltongue opens up secret passageways in the dungeons or something, like a password?To Slytherin secret passages for, er…” he waves a hand, trailing off lamely; he hasn’t thought that far yet.

“Actually,” says Sirius, conversational, “there did used to be rumors about a secret chamber Salazar Slytherin built near the end of his life.Apparently, it was supposed to be some sort of lair for Purebloods to bask in and wax poetic about the sanctity of their blood purity, and possibly for them to… _slither in…_ to each other’s company,” he waggles his brows lecherously at Remus, “you know, engage in activities that would ensure the passage of that sanctified blood onto future generations.”

“Ah, yes, the famed secret Slytherin pureblood sex room,” Remus says, deadpan.

“If you and this Riddle bloke ever find this sex room on your nighttime, ah, _wanderings_ , do tell us all about it.”Sirius smiles dazzlingly.

“You’re just making fun of me now!” Harry cries, mortified; his face is on fire and is probably the color of his Quidditch robes.

“You saw him talking to Draco Malfoy, though?” Sirius asks, taking pity on him.

“Yeah,” Harry says, turning to him, relieved.“They’re friends now, I think.”Harry pauses there.“Well, maybe not quite friends.I don’t actually think Malfoy likes him very much.Might even be scared of him, actually.”He realizes as he says it that it is almost definitely true.

Harry had been too distracted that day by their duel, but Malfoy had run off in a panic when he’d seen Riddle approaching them, hadn’t he?And Riddle had seemed keenly interested in whatever Harry had said to Malfoy.Not to mention that thoroughly odd encounter just earlier today.

…He’s just going to have to use the Cloak again.

“ _Harry_ ,” Remus chides, giving him that look, like he _knows_.The threat about the Map hangs in the air between them. 

Then Remus sighs, rubbing his thumb and middle finger over his temples, but he’s smiling.“If he really can speak Parseltongue, it’s worth noting for a number of reasons.I’ll bring your suspicions about Riddle up to the headmaster, and he’ll do what he considers appropriate,” he concedes, perhaps also taking pity on Harry.

“ _Please_ don’t tell Dumbledore I took out the Cloak to sneak around after hours,” Harry begs.“He made me promise not to use it unless it was an absolute emergency.”

This catches their attention.“Did he?”Sirius furrows his brows, all traces of earlier teasing immediately gone.“When was this?Why would he do that?”He glances at Remus, who simply shakes his head, brow faintly furrowed.

“He didn’t say.Told me to keep it on me at all times but never to let on that I have it.He also wanted to know who else knew I have it, and I told him you two and maybe all the Weasleys, and maybe Neville…er, Sirius?” 

His godfather’s brow is stormy now, in complete contrast to the teasing from only a moment ago, and Harry can tell that it’s one of his moods descended without warning again.

Sirius glances darkly around their table at all the Broomsticks’s other patrons, casts an extra _Muffliato_ on top of Remus’s, then looks down at his half-finished mead.“Back at Nurmengard…” he pauses and looks at Remus for permission to go on.Remus’s shoulders stiffen in a way that looks painful, but he nods infinitesimally. 

Harry’s breath quickens.They almost never talk about—

Sirius swallows but continues: “Back at Nurmengard, did they ever question you about the Invisibility Cloak?” he asks gruffly.

“…Yes, at the very beginning…right around when they first started allowing me longer periods of lucidity,” Remus replies, expression drawing down in a mirror of Sirius’s.He doesn’t quite go through mercurial mood swings, with those extreme highs and lows, the way Sirius does when the subject of their imprisonment comes up, but whereas Sirius has the ability to hit rock bottom and then perk back up immediately afterwards, as if shedding a skin, Remus has the tendency to let his particular brand of tenebrous detachment follow him around for hours, and sometimes days. 

“The guards and usual interrogators all cleared out, and Grindelwald came into my cell alone to ask me about it.”

“Do you remember his exact questions?”

Remus glances quickly at Sirius with a raised eyebrow before looking up at Harry, his lips pressed into a thin line.“He wanted to know all sorts of things: how often we used it, how long James’d had it, whether the invisibility charms ever needed renewing, how long it’d been in the Potter family, whether it was susceptible to summoning charms, whether spells could be cast through it…”

“…and whether Dumbledore had ever shown any interest in it,” Sirius finishes gravely for him. 

Harry feels his pulse start to race, his heart beating loudly against his ribcage.Sirius and Remus almost never talk about their time as Grindelwald’s prisoners in front of him, and their St Mungo’s mind healer has warned him not to pry unless his godfathers volunteer the information first.

“Harry,” Sirius begins carefully.

“Sirius—” Remus warns.

“No, Moony, I’m positive there’s something about James’s old cloak, and if it jeopardizes Harry’s safety…” his expression darkens into something dangerous.“Dumbledore doesn’t bloody tell anyone anything ever, so we’re just going to have to tell Harry what we know.” 

Remus’s jaw tightens, but he nods stiffly after a moment.

Sirius meets Harry’s wide eyes.“Harry.”

Harry sits up straight, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“After…as soon as Grindelwald got wind of Wormtail’s demise, he moved in and swept us all up, every single agent in Dumbledore’s intelligence network across Germany and Austria.You’ve heard some of this before, right?” 

Harry nods jerkily. 

“Of course, we must have been blown for weeks, if not for months before that—even now, we’re still not sure about when he defected,”—Sirius’s face twists into an ugly snarl—“but whereas most of the Order spies were killed on the spot, a few of us got to live, because Grindelwald thought we had information he could use.”

“And to try to turn you,” Harry supplies carefully.He’s never been told details about this before, and he’s afraid the wrong word will clam them right up.

“Yes,” Remus says heavily, “it’s one of the reasons Dumbledore himself was in charge of our debriefs and psychological evaluations after he’d got us back.”

The process had taken literal months, with Harry only allowed to see them for short, thirty-minute visits once a month, and only through a magical barrier—always under Dumbledore’s watchful eye.Harry knows that they had both had to consent to all sorts of normally banned Legilimency being used on them before they could be declared clear of potential Grindelwald attachments.Only then had they been allowed to return to daily life and proceed with taking custody of Harry.

It was a miracle that Dumbledore had been able to convince the Office of Magical Intelligence and Counterintelligence to exchange Quirrell for them at all, and, apparently, it had been suspicious, in and of itself, that Grindelwald had agreed to the trade.

“In any case, the salient bit here is that during my debrief, Dumbledore was really insistent on the stuff about the Invisibility Cloak.I didn’t think anything of it at the time; just thought he was being thorough.He wanted to know the exact wording of Grindelwald’s questions, the exact wording of my answers.I told him that after eight years, I couldn’t really be sure of what exactly I’d said—especially since this line of questioning happened as they were transitioning me out of the welcome period.Similar for you, Moony, I imagine?”

Remus nods slowly, his forehead still deeply wrinkled in thought.

“So…you’re saying that Grindelwald really wants my Invisibility Cloak and that Dumbledore doesn’t want him to have it?” Harry asks, just to be sure, because the idea of it is absurd.Shouldn’t the great Dark Lord be able to make himself invisible without one, like Dumbledore can?

“It does sound pretty loony, but Merlin knows what game the masterminds are playing up there,” Sirius mutters, running a hand over his face.

“The point is, Harry,” says Remus, “that if Dumbledore wants you keeping that cloak safe, you oughtn’t be using it to sneak around the castle after Malfoy.Or Tom Riddle.”

“Why doesn’t he just take it for safekeeping himself, then?” Harry asks, annoyed.

Remus shrugs.“Believes that it’s rightfully yours, I suppose.But do you understand the importance of keeping the Cloak safe?”

Harry pushes a carrot around his plate with the back of his fork, watching the way it marks a clean trail through the pot roast juices.“I…yeah, I guess.”

“Sorry, pup, this isn’t the conversation I’d intended on having when we came in here for lunch,” Sirius says wryly, scratching lightly at the back of his neck.He spears a potato off his plate and pops it into his mouth, then drains the last of his mead in one long gulp and gives Remus a hearty pat on the back.

He leans forward, and just like that, his smile is back.“So when’s the drawing of names happening, then?”

And Harry understands that this part of the conversation is over.

“Friday dinner,” he replies, still staring thoughtfully at his plate.Colin Creevey refuses to stop pestering him about putting his name in, no matter how many times Harry tells him he isn’t going to.He catches Sirius’s eye.“No, Sirius, I haven’t put my name in and won’t put my name in.”

“Right, right, I know that, Harry,” Sirius says, reaching out with a fond smile to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Anything planned for the rest of the weekend?”

“We’re meant to be preparing the common room for the victory party tonight,” Harry says, smiling as he thinks to the night ahead.

“Ah, yes, the Gryffindor champions of the year, after only a single measly match.Things sure are easier now, eh?Back in my day, we had to win an entire _season_ to get our hands on the Quidditch Cup,” Sirius sniffs haughtily as he and Remus see Harry towards the door of the tavern. 

“McGonagall sanctioned an all-houses party in our common room, which I think might be a first in the entire history of Hogwarts,” Harry adds, gleeful.

“She _what?_ ”Sirius’s eyes widen comically.“Dear old Minnie?Huh.Must be getting soft in her old age.Reckon I’d have a chance with her now, Moony?”

“Believe me, Padfoot, I would pay to see you try.”

“Drink responsibly, Harry, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Sirius calls cheerfully.

“Don’t do anything Sirius _would_ do,” Remus amends, placid, as they wave him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So I'd meant for there to be a ridiculous party in this chapter, too, but then everyone just kept talking, and I was approaching 8000 words. So I had to cut it, hélas. (But you all like the dogdad-goddads, right?)


	7. Chapter 6: The After-Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry realizes, under the influence of alcohol, that maybe Durmstrang students are actual people with real feelings and desires after all, spontaneously forms an exclusive jock Quidditch club, and then reads the newspaper hungover the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to address this before the mob rises up to burn me at the stake: I know, I know, “Praesidium” implies some sort of communist gov’t structure, or at least a republic of some sort, which doesn’t really jive with the head of state calling himself “Imperator,” but please just roll with it. If it really bothers you, think of it as Grindelwald wanting to appropriate the word from the silly muggles or something.
> 
> Thanks, as usual, to Artemis1219 <3

The twins and Angelina grab Harry just as he’s about to start on his treacle tart.

“Back to the common room, guest of honor,” Fred sing-songs.

“Hey, I’m still—”

“We’ve a party to set up, Captain!” Angelina pipes cheerfully, then swipes his plate out from right under his nose. 

And Harry is suddenly being hauled away from the table and ungracefully frog-marched out of the Great Hall by an identically freckled ginger on either side, with Angelina and his abducted dessert leading the way.

The rest of the team, the reserve members, and a couple of eager housemates are already hard at work in the common room, transfiguring bits of rolled-up parchment and other odds and ends into mock-Snitches and miniature Bludgers or charming streamers to sparkle red and gold.

“There you are, Harry!” Ginny loses no time in putting him to work.“Can you do the couches and armchairs?Probably Hermione will want to check everything over one last time before we start letting people in, but it won’t hurt to make sure the _Impervius_ charms on the upholstery are solid.”She hands him a list of spells to be performed on various portions of Gryffindor tower and wanders away.

Harry sighs but grudgingly does as asked, wandering over to the armchairs by the fire to start.He points his wand at the upholstery and mutters, “ _Impervius,_ ” then follows it up with an _Aguamenti,_ grinning to himself when the stream of water bounces right off the squashy cushions.

“Next year, if they sanction another all-houses party, can we all agree that the losing team has to host instead?” Ron complains from where he’s on paper-wad-to-miniature-Bludger duty.“Why should we have to do all this work when we _won_?”

Harry wrinkles his nose.“I wouldn’t fancy needing to host a party for the winning team if I lost,” he says honestly.“Can you imagine what that would feel like?Think of having to host a party for a Slytherin win.”He winces at the very thought.

“Yeah, guess you’re right,” Ron says dejectedly, and pokes his wand at another rolled-up wad of parchment, which spins itself into a Bludger-like shape before zooming off towards its brethren.

“So what are we serving tonight?” Harry asks, eyeing the mildly alarming number of barrels of butterbeer stacked along the east wall of the common room as he moves onto Imperviusing the sofas.

“Four houses’ Quidditch budgets’ worth of butterbeer, firewhisky, and various snacks and hors d’oeuvres from Honeydukes and the Three Broomsticks,” Katie replies, sounding slightly shellshocked.She’s been in charge of team finances for the team since Harry’s fourth year, and they’ve never done anything like this before; post-match parties have always just been for house members only, and they’ve always had to save the majority of the budget for broom and gear maintenance, so parties had always been relatively small affairs.The fact that McGonagall even sanctioned something like this, where all students from all the houses, and even the visiting schools, will be allowed to attend, defies all belief.

“It’ll be just regular butterbeer for the third- through fifth-years and Bombardas for sixth- and seventh-years if they want, unless they bring their own drinks of course,” Angelina says.

“No straight Firewhisky?” Cormac McLaggen calls from the corner where he’s busy levitating up a sign for the loos.

“Seventh-years only, and only if they ask for it,” Angelina insists sternly.Then she glances at Harry and Ron.“Well, maybe also for sixth-years on the team, losing team included, if they show.”

“Oh, they will,” Katie says knowingly.“Cedric will beg them to come with him because he’ll think it’s rude not to show up, and they’ll all go along with it because they love him and because they’re Hufflepuffs.Loyalty and solidarity and all that.”

“Ah, yes, Head Boy Diggory and his lofty ideals about fair sportsmanship,” Fred drawls, rolling his eyes.

—

The upholstery all waterproofed to his satisfaction, Harry wanders over to the staircases leading to the dormitories to examine the runic wards carved into the wood and consults the list Ginny handed him. _check that dorm wards keyed to letting only Gryfs in and_ _not_ _keeping Huff/Slyth/Rav out (bc visiting students),_ Hermione’s tiny scrawl reads, and Harry furrows his brow in consternation.

Professor Babbling covered runic wards in fourth year at a very basic level, and while Harry did in fact scrape an E in his O.W.L., the sort carved into the castle furnishings are much more advanced than anything he’s ever had to deal with before.He’ll leave this one to Hermione, he thinks, marking an asterisk and question mark next to the item on the list, and proceeds to recruit Ginny to help him Impervius the carpet.

McGonagall comes by shortly before 8:30 to remind them, a rare twinkle in her eye, that if she finds a single thing out of place the following morning, the entire house will be looking at detention for a straight two weeks.Every jaw in the room drops collectively.Coming from her, it’s as good as blanket permission to make as much noise and mess as they want, provided they leave behind no evidence and repair anything they break.

“She must really be over the moon about our win,” Ginny comments.“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this lax about rules before.Well, except where it was Umbridge’s rules…”

By the time they start letting students from other houses in, Fred and George have set up to man the drinks station (“best way to move our goods without catching _her_ attention,” Fred whispers to Harry, as if he and George are dealing in the sort of outlawed specialty grasses Sirius has imported from Morocco every so often instead of joke toys, and as if Hermione will release the wrath of Mrs. Weasley upon them if she catches them out), and Hermione has harangued a fifth-year prefect into standing guard at the portrait hole with her to keep second- or first-years from trying to sneak in.

True to Katie’s prediction, Cedric and a rather dejected-looking Hufflepuff team show up shortly after Hermione starts letting people in.Rather more surprisingly, Cedric enters the Gryffindor common room chatting animatedly with a dour-looking Viktor Krum, the apparent de facto leader of the Durmstrang delegation, and Krum has brought with him all his classmates save Malfoy.

Cedric smiles widely at Harry, the expression only a little forced, and Harry does his best to smile back; while he understands that Cedric probably feels he ought to be here as Head Boy, Harry does think that the other boy’s behavior is approaching a certain level of self-flagellation as he sneaks a guilty look around at the miniature Snitches and Bludgers zooming cheerfully among the obnoxiously Gryffindor-themed furnishings and decorations, not to mention the Quidditch Cup sitting brazenly at the center of the room, draped in red and gold hangings.He doubts anyone would have minded if the captain who just lost the final Quidditch match of his school career had sat out the after-party.

The slightly awkward moment is cut short when Krum and another boy step forward, hefting between them a crate from which the telltale clinking of glass bottles issues merrily.Krum says something to the boy holding the other side of the crate in another language and then levitates twelve bottles of crystal-clear liquid out onto the drinks table.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Krum says stiltedly, his surly expression completely at odds with his words and the festive mood all around him.Harry wonders if it’s just his default facial expression.

“Here is our contribution to your party tonight; I believe you call it ‘icevodka’ here.”And Krum proceeds to open a bottle, march over to the nearest Gryffindor—Angelina—and dump a generous portion into her glass of firewhisky.Steam immediately rises forebodingly from the mixture, and Angelina watches the drink in her hand with a combination of trepidation and fascination for a moment before looking up at Fred, shrugging, and downing the whole thing in a one long swill.

The Durmstrang students whoop loudly, one of the girls coming around to clap Angelina on the back as she promptly starts to cough, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Merlin’s balls, that’s _strong_ ,” she chokes, wiping at her eyes.

“I believe you call that drink an Iceburn.Normally, ve do not drink it all at vonce…it is meant to be sipped,” Krum adds, quite belatedly.He’s watching Angelina with wide eyes, clearly impressed.

“I recommend trying it,” Angelina gasps, finally catching her breath again, “but maybe not more than once in a single night.”She coughs again, then immediately refills her glass with an _Aguamenti_ to cheers and applause all around.

“Another, another!” Cormac McLaggen starts to yell, but Fred slaps him upside the head, and he immediately quiets.

“One for the match’s Most Volatile Player!” George shouts, then, and cheerfully takes the bottle of Icevodka from Krum to pour some into his own glass of firewhisky.He shoves the resulting mixture into Harry’s face.

Harry looks doubtfully at the steaming drink, then up at the room around him.Hermione’s lips are pursed in disapproval, but apart from her, it seems that every face in the room is watching him in anticipation of a repeat of Angelina’s heroics.He briefly makes eye contact with Angelina, who jerks her head in a perfect cross between nodding eagerly and shaking her head anxiously.

Harry grits his teeth and compromises by taking a single generous gulp—and immediately almost coughs it all back up to raucous cheering and good-natured laughter.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears feelingly, eyes streaming and throat burning.“Who the _fuck_ decided this was meant for human consumption?”

“Well, that clears up who’s really got the most backbone on this team, eh?” Seamus crows, slapping Harry hard on the back, and holds his glass out for George to pour some Icevodka into.

“Say that after you’ve tried it,” Harry rasps, still hacking.

A glass of “Iceburn” immediately makes its way into the hand of each Gryffindor and Hufflepuff team member, as well as those of some of the more enterprising seventh years; every single Durmstrang student also takes a glass, and Harry has to seek refuge with Luna Lovegood over by the fireplace as the noise level skyrockets.

—

The heat in the center of the room has become unbearable, with so many bodies pressed close to each other, all moving and gesturing animatedly.Luna begged off early, citing an important appointment with a colony of Poppycockles up on the Astronomy Tower.Harry has just ensconced himself into a relatively unoccupied corner near the portrait hole, away from the noise and the impending doom embodied by the situation that is a red-cheeked Lavender Brown hanging off the arm of an even-redder-cheeked Ron while Hermione glowers darkly next to them, her fingers so tight against her goblet that Harry fears for its bodily integrity, when someone calls his name.

Harry looks up.It is, of all people, Viktor Krum of the Durmstrang delegation. 

“That vos a good catch today,” Krum says to him.

“Er, thanks, that…means a lot, coming from you,” Harry replies, pleased in spite of himself.Then, he adds, a little belatedly, “Sorry about crashing into your box like that.” 

“You caught the Snitch,” Krum answers, shrugging, as if that, in and of itself, excuses it.Krum might not be so bad, Harry thinks.“May I join you here?It is too loud over there.”Harry looks over at the center of the room where Krum is gesturing: Fred and George, taking advantage of Hermione’s distraction, have abandoned all pretense of serving drinks and are openly showing off their newest line of Skiving Snackboxes to ebullient laughter and a tittering crowd of Beauxbâtons students, who arrived earlier led, as usual, by a smug-looking Riddle.

“Sure,” he replies, turning back to Krum with polite interest.Perhaps he might have been more wary or even unfriendly under other circumstances, but the firewhisky-icevodka concoction, which mellowed out after the initial horrific mouthful, is warming a pleasant fuzzy feeling in his belly.Harry thinks that really, he quite appreciates Krum’s brusque and straightforward manner after days of Tom Riddle’s particular brand of stalking-pestering.

Krum asks, “Vill you play professionally venn you leave Hogvarts?”

“Er, I…” Harry falters, not quite sure whether or not his ambition to pursue a career catching dark wizards will be ill received.“Probably not,” he admits diplomatically, if awkwardly.

“That is a shame.Myself, I vill play professionally venn I graduate Durmstrang at the end ohff this year,” Krum continues, either not noticing Harry’s obvious discomfort or wholly choosing to ignore it.Perhaps this is, like his perpetually put-upon expression, just another one of his quirks.“I think you vould be fun to play against, maybe.”

Harry hesitates, not quite sure how to phrase his next question, but the words tumble out of his mouth before he’s had a chance to think them through properly:

“Don’t all Durmstrang students have to serve at least three years in Grindelwald’s army following school?”

Krum turns to watch Harry carefully.“Did your friend Draco Malfoy tell you that?”

“No, I heard it from Dumbledore once.And Malfoy and I aren’t friends,” Harry corrects emphatically, appalled that anyone who’s ever seen him and Malfoy in the same room could make such a mistake.

“My apologies.I simply assumed, since… but to answer your question, yes, normally, ve must serve three years.I am a special case, as I have been scouted by my home nation for the Vorld Cup next year.But… the Imperator’s Praesidium have made me the offer that if I train and play for the Northern Empire instead next summer, I vill only haff to serve in the army for vone year afftervards.”

Harry blinks, staring.“Aren’t you the lead student of the Durmstrang delegation, though?I thought the best at Durmstrang were always drafted for service in Grindelwald’s Praetorian Guard.And Grindelwald is just…okay with you only doing a year?”

Krum shrugs.“It is the offer the Praesidium made me, so I vill take it,” he says simply.“I vant to be a professional Quidditch player, not a soldier, and vone year avay from training vill be much less detrimental to that goal than three.There is not much of a choice.”He frowns stormily.“As it is, this vone year spent here at Hogvarts, vhere I cannot practice, is already a problem for my training and conditioning.”

Harry furrows a brow.“But then you wouldn’t be able to play for your home nation for another five years…that’s ages.”

Another shrug, this time accompanied by a darkening in Krum’s face.“It is a good deal, vat I haff—better than vat has been offered to others.I vould not be able to play for Bulgaria until 2001 either vay,” he points out, expression dour again as he takes another sip of his drink.

Then he leans back in his armchair and smirks challengingly at Harry.“I vould not have needed to jump off my broom to beat the opposing Seeker to the Snitch today, if it vos my match.”

Harry is about to retort angrily, but then thinks back to what he’s read about Krum in the copies of Quidditch Weekly Ron lent him, to the photo capturing Krum pulling out of a Wronski feint where anyone else would have crashed and cracked their head open.“Yeah, I reckon you’re right,” he says, then takes another sip of his drink, grinning.“I still won, though.”

“It vos a good match,” Krum repeats, and he raises his glass to Harry, then drains it.

For a Durmstrang student, he really isn't so bad, Harry decides, and proceeds to drink again, but frowns upon finding himself tipping his head all the way back and meeting with an empty glass.He turns to look over to the drinks table, which Fred and George have long abandoned in favor of openly stalking around the common room for unsuspecting students to foist their products on, to see that there’s plenty of butterbeer and firewhisky left for the taking.Krum seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he raises his wand and summons a pitcher of butterbeer, a bottle of firewhisky, and a bottle of wine (courtesy of the French students) over to their little corner table, only spilling a minimal amount.Harry mumbles his thanks as the other boy begins refilling his own glass. 

A snide part of Harry’s brain thinks that this routine is exactly the process a Grindelwald spy might go through if they wanted to get close to him or any other stalwart supporter of Dumbledore: make the approach using a shared interest as an icebreaker, then find an angle against Grindelwald to further earn sympathy and establish a rapport.He’s seen Sirius do it, most frequently when striking up conversation with people who’d normally want nothing to do with blood traitors at the stuffy Pureblood parties Dumbledore sometimes makes him attend ( _routine_ _intelligence-gathering for the Order_ , Sirius once explained gruffly, though Harry rather suspects he goes mostly to have an excuse to drink their vaunted wine cellars dry).But then again, in Hermione’s words, Krum is also just a teenager—a student—just like Harry; what business does he have being a spy?And surely no spy would go around with such a sullen look on his face all the time, would they?The best spooks can blend in and integrate seamlessly into new environments and are generally liked by everyone, Remus had once told him.

“Krum, there you are.And Potter.”Cedric has come up to them, his smile far more relaxed than when he had first arrived.Harry suspects that much of this can be attributed to the good efforts of the goblet of wine in his hand.

“Ce- er, Diggory!” He greets hastily, standing up.“I, er, never got a chance to thank you for my broom earlier,” he says awkwardly, then wobbles as, for the second time that day, the world around him tilts on its axis.

Cedric reaches out to steady him, an amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips.“Icevodka got to you?Maybe you should sit back down.Here,” and he points his wand at Harry’s empty glass and mutters, “ _Aguamenti._ ”

“Thanks, really, you didn’t have to,” Harry repeats, suddenly feeling that it is of monumental importance that he properly convey the depth of his appreciation.It’s Cedric’s final year—he must have wanted the Quidditch Cup more than anything—and instead of the Snitch, he had caught Harry’s broom, of all things.

“For catching your broom?It’s what anyone would have done,” Cedric replies loosely, easing himself up onto the windowsill.His smile turns wry.“I had, quite literally, a front-row seat to watching you catch the Snitch and your broom zooming off without you.The match was over.It was only natural to reach out and grab it.” 

His eyes stray to Harry’s right hand, and Harry recalls, momentarily, the sensation of Cedric’s fingertips brushing warm over his own knuckles, missing the Snitch by a millisecond.He takes a sip of water to ease the sudden dryness in his mouth.They lapse into a boozy silence, and Harry wonders if he should try to think of something to say, but the alcohol has put him in a lugubrious, comfortable mood, as if his mind has been pillowed in soft, woolly clouds.

He is suddenly struck with the best idea ever: “We should keep playing!” he blurts.

Cedric and Krum blink at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“ _Seeker matches!_ The Quidditch season is canceled, fine, but why shouldn’t we keep playing anyway?” Harry babbles.“I bet you Dumbledore wouldn’t care, and there are Aurors patrolling the school grounds these days, so security wouldn’t be an issue.And it’s not like they’re using the Quidditch pitch for anything now anyway.”He looks eagerly from Cedric’s amused gray eyes to Krum’s more reserved black ones, waiting for them to cotton onto the brilliance of his idea, and cheers internally when Cedric’s face starts to take on a thoughtful look.

“You _were_ saying earlier that you’ll be horrifically out of practice by the time training season for the World Cup rolls around next summer,” Cedric says to Krum, running a palm against his jaw.“We could even recruit some Beaters to help keep the pace up.Of course,” and he gives Harry a quick, apologetic look before turning to Krum, “we’re not exactly playing at a professional level here, but I imagine it’d be better than nothing, if you need to keep in shape.”

Krum, for his part, looks as if Cedric has insulted him somehow.Again, the words out of his mouth run a clear counterpoint to the expression on his face: “You both played an excellent match today, and I vould be honored to join you on the field.”He raises his glass to them, and Harry, delighted, shares a grin with Cedric and downs his water as if he’s Angelina chugging Iceburn.

—

A couple of drinks later, their little corner nook has somehow been graced with the presence of Fleur Delacour (probably drawn by Cedric’s good looks and Krum’s rising-star-athlete reputation), who has brought with her a rather varied crowd of admirers.She has even managed to attract Ron away from Lavender, though now both Lavender _and_ Hermione are glowering at Delacour as if conspiring to commit homicide—whether Ron’s or the French girl’s is anyone’s guess.Perhaps both.Harry decides that it is probably time to move from water onto the elf-made wine the French students brought, and goes to procure himself a goblet.

“—And our dormeetorees are spelled so zat we are woken by ze muzeek of a ‘arp every morning,” Delacour is saying when Harry returns.

Cedric, Krum, Ron, and the other half-dozen boys gathered around her are hanging onto her every word, and Harry has to nudge Ron aside none too gently to reclaim his seat next to him.

“I could serenade you with my flute instead while you’re visiting here,” an eager Ravenclaw boy gushes, then immediately blushes bright red as all eyes around the table turn to him.

“Do not listen to him,” a Durmstrang boy with a faint Italian accent scoffs, “I will sing to you Puccini and Rossini’s most celebrated arias at any time you so choose!”

“Hah, opera, how old are you, a hundred and twelve?” cries Oddpick, a Gryffindor seventh-year.“Miss Delacour, I will compose you sonnets that put Shakespeare to shame and recite them out in the Great Hall for all to hear!”

Delacour looks them all over with a faintly alarmed air as more boys start to clamor to join in.

Just as all this begins to give Harry a headache, a loud cheer goes up around the common room, this time accompanied by several wolf-whistles.Harry whips his head around to get a better view of what’s causing all the ruckus.

It is, of course, Tom Riddle…with his tongue stuck down Head Girl Louisa MacDonald’s throat.He has one long-fingered hand pressed into the small of her back and the other cupped elegantly along her jaw, as if he’s posing for some muggle romance film poster. 

Harry feels his jaw drop, which has been a rather distressingly frequent occurrence where Riddle and Riddle-related matters have been concerned lately.

“He hasn’t even known her a _week!_ ” Harry squawks.Indeed, the visiting students arrived Monday evening, and it is currently Saturday night.

“Maaate,” slurs Ron, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulder, “you’re thinking about it all wr-rrong, yeah?”Harry has no idea how many drinks his friend has had, but he does remember him valiantly downing an Iceburn at the beginning of the evening.“It isn’t about _romance_ and _knowing_ each other anymore in this beautiful day and age.”His eyes drift lazily over to Lavender before coming back to rest on Delacour.“Anyone can snog anyone, any time.”His lips curve into a pleased, dreamy grin. 

“ _I know that_ ,” Harry grouses, wriggling out from under Ron and then flapping an arm in Riddle’s general direction.“I’m just saying that he’s totally shameless!”

“The French are famous for that, are they not?The, ah, snogging, you call it?” Krum asks Delacour, looking her in the eye directly, totally unabashed. 

Delacour makes a haughty sniffing sound but doesn’t deign to respond.

“Louisa isn’t even the first one,” Cedric says, sounding a little strangled, though when Harry turns back to look questioningly at him, Cedric only flushes and shakes his head, looking resolutely away and refusing to answer.Too noble to gossip, apparently.

“But th-that’s just…” Harry sputters, watching, utterly transfixed by the way Riddle’s reddened lips move sensuously against MacDonald’s, as if engaged in some sort of pre-choreographed dance of push-and-pull, give-and-take.It’s…strangely mesmerizing.

“He… does move quickly, though,” Krum comments lightly, and Harry barely manages to hold back a choked noise.

It’s not that Harry is a total stranger to snogging; really, he’s not.He’s snogged Cho before (though admittedly only a few times, and to varying levels of success/satisfaction), and before that, once, drunkenly, Parvati at the end-of-year party in fourth year (this is acknowledged by all present to have been a terrible, terrible mistake).So, yeah, he’s snogged girls before.And even if he hadn’t, he’s still seen it done enough around the castle; Hogwarts _is_ a boarding school full of teenagers, at the end of the day. 

But Harry is pretty sure he’s never known it to be like…whatever it is that Riddle’s doing in the middle of the Gryffindor common room for all to see _._ He can’t really see MacDonald’s face from his angle, but her hands are clenched tight in the front of Riddle’s robes, as if trying to pull Riddle as close to herself as possible.Something twists hot and heavy in his gut at the thought of that.

“Ah, _oui_ , Tom Reedle, _toujours adoré_ ,” Delacour’s voice drifts over from behind him, its owner apparently finally having caught sight of whom exactly everyone’s attention has been diverted by.“I see ‘Ogwarts eez not losing time een deescovairing ‘eez parteeculair… talents.”

Harry notices out of the corner of his eye that most of the boys around him have turned their attention immediately back to the sole girl in their midst, but Harry’s gaze is locked on the way Riddle’s pale arm stands out against the deep burgundy of MacDonald’s robes, the way the bones in his hand shift under that ivory skin when he adjusts his grip against her waist.

Yes, it’s just snogging, but Harry’s never quite seen anyone kiss like _that_ in public before (or is it simply that he’s never really noticed it quite like this?).Just watching them seems to make his face go hot, something about it just so strangely obscene—and he tries to say so, but no one seems to be listening; Ron, too, is back to gazing dreamily at Delacour, who has started talking about something else.

Harry watches, grudgingly impressed, as Riddle pulls back, leans in to whisper something, then easily guides MacDonald ahead of him in the direction the portrait hole, his hand large against the narrow small of her back.Just as they’re about to duck out of view, Riddle pauses and turns around to take one last sweep of the common room, and his dark eyes lock with Harry’s.

Riddle _winks_ , and Harry’s face is completely and utterly aflame, his mouth hanging open again as Riddle’s grin somehow, against probability, broadens to be even more smug.And then he’s gone, slender fingers wiggling behind him in a mocking wave.

“That _wanker_ ,” Harry seethes, standing up in righteous indignation.“Who does he think he is, swanning in here and taking the piss out of the rest of us like that!”

“Potter, what—”

“Harry, what in Godric’s gonads!” Ron shouts, and Harry looks down, only to realize he’s managed to dislodge and spill the entirety of Ron’s drink all over his robes.

“Oh, sorry, I, er, wasn’t paying attention—here, I’ll get you another,” Harry says, blinking and hastily siphoning off some of the spilled liquid with his wand.He’s glad to have the excuse to get away from this group; it’s really become incredibly hot, and his face has suddenly become worryingly warm—it must be all the people squeezed into such a small corner of the room.

“What, are you jealous of Riddle over MacDonald, Potter?Didn’t know you were into older girls,” someone jeers, and Harry responds with a glare and a rude hand gesture before making a quick escape.

He finds a dejected Hermione half-heartedly wiping down the tables at the drinks station, where the alcohol finally seems to be running low.

“…not the best night?” Harry asks lightly as he finds a half-full bottle of wine to pour into a goblet for Ron.

Hermione just looks at him darkly, then glances over at the other side of the room, where Lavender and Parvati are busy whispering furiously with Lisa Turpin and Hannah Abbot, and back to Harry.Harry tries very hard to hide his grimace.He loves Ron and Hermione dearly, but he’s been dreading this _thing_ between his best friends for exactly this reason… Fortunately, tonight may not be the best time to broach the subject with Hermione, given both their states of inebriation and exhaustion.

“Well, miracle of miracles, there’s no vomit in the loos, so that’s something,” Hermione says eventually.“Help me start to clean some of this up?”She looks forlornly around at their transfigured mini-Bludgers and Snitches, whose charms are rapidly starting to wear off.One such Bludger, whose charm is clearly starting to malfunction, seems to have made it its mission to devote its short remaining span of animation to relentlessly throwing itself against a passed-out Cormac McLaggen’s right temple.Hermione Vanishes it with a deft flick of her wand and a heavy sigh.

“Er, sure, let me just get this back to Ron,” Harry says quickly, and turns away as Hermione’s brow grows stormy at the mere mention of Ron’s name.

By the time Hermione lets him trip up the stairs and fall into bed, exhausted, all the alcohol he consumed has started to catch up with him, and when Harry closes his eyes, the black behind his eyelids seems to swirl and rock gently, as if he’s lain down in a boat drifting on ocean waves.In his dreams, he’s chased through a miasmic darkness by elegant ivory hands and a smooth, low laugh as he runs after a Snitch that flutters perpetually just beyond his reach.

—

Sporting a vaguely throbbing headache, Harry arrives down in the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning to find Hermione frowning stormily at the _Daily Prophet_ , which she has flipped to one of the inside pages where they put all the boring political articles and salacious pureblood gossip.

“Harry!” She says immediately.“Look at this—it’s already started.Durmstrang has been here for all of _a week_ , and there’s already a story in here about a bigoted blood supremacist going on a rampage in a muggle village!Oh, it’s completely awful.”

Harry leans over to squint at the article. _Magical Disturbance Reported in Muggle Village,_ the article headline reads.It goes on to describe the circumstances: yesterday evening, a lone and by all accounts completely unhinged wizard who had lived in near-complete obscurity for years near a small muggle village suddenly strode up to the village square at dinnertime and started firing curses at random.There were five casualties, three the result of a particularly violent blasting curse caving in a house, and two more the result of bleeding out after they were hit with dark curses; by the time the Auror office could be alerted and field medics summoned, it was too late.The wizard had loudly proclaimed himself the heir of Salazar Slytherin, declaring allegiance to Grindelwald and the pureblood supremacist cause before Aurors arrived on the scene to contain the damage and apprehend him.Given multiple prior convictions and the gravity of the latest offense, he is expected to be sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss, pending an expedited trial.

“ _Imperator Grindelwald and his government have denied all involvement and unilaterally condemn the perpetrator, declaring the massacre a tragedy of unimaginable proportion_ ,” Harry reads aloud, not believing a word of it sincere.“That… really is completely awful,” he whispers, glancing at Hermione, then at the visiting students’ table, where the few Durmstrang students present chat amiably to one another.The same students whom he had been chatting merrily with just last night.One of whom he’d agreed to _play_ _Quidditch_ with _._

A horrible thought strikes him.“This… must have happened right around when we were all off school grounds for the Hogsmeade visit yesterday,” Harry says slowly, dread building in his gut.

He turns to meet Hermione’s eye, knowing she’s already reached the same conclusion.“No apparition barriers,” she confirms, nodding. 

“We need to question them.I bet you Malfoy’s—”

“ _Harry!_ ”She casts a quick _Muffliato_ , and Harry has the grace to look a little chastised.“The visiting students practically have the status of foreign dignitaries; you can’t just go around accusing them of plotting to massacre muggles!” Hermione hisses, though it’s obvious by her demeanor that she feels equally frustrated by this fact.

“Any one of the Durmstrang students could have gone and told him to do it,” Harry insists.

“…I know.The students are all being watched too closely while they’re here at Hogwarts to really be able to get up to anything untoward, but they can still get out and spread Grindelwald’s message or go about the countryside recruiting if they leave school grounds…and there’s no way for the Trace to track apparition once someone is licensed, which, for most countries on the continent, happens at sixteen, not seventeen like it is for us here…”

Harry thinks about it, then nods his agreement.“Bet you Malfoy does know something, though.We should corner him and ask him.”

Hermione hums, clearly deep in thought as Harry plucks a piece of toast onto his plate.

She looks back down at the newspaper.“They didn’t even bother to publish the _names_ of the dead muggles, let alone the perpetrator,” she snarls with disgust.“They’re treating the muggles as if aren’t even _human_ or something.This is exactly the kind of blood supremacist attitude Grindelwald is trying to promote here, and the _Prophet_ are playing right along…not that that’s any surprise, I suppose.”She stabs her fork viciously into her eggs.

Harry frowns.“Why is this buried in along with the gossip columns?Shouldn’t something like this have made the front page?” he asks, perturbed.“You know, given all the Grindelwald discourse seeping into the country and _the Grindelwald agents inside Hogwarts_.” 

Hermione doesn’t bother to argue with Harry about ‘mere teenagers’ being Grindelwald agents this morning, Harry notes with grim satisfaction.

“You’d think the Ministry would want to make a bigger deal out of it,” he continues.“Not to mention the article title…this isn’t just a magical disturbance, it’s…an attempted massacre.And a hate crime.”It’s one of the only pieces of magical law he’s managed to retain from five years of History of Magic classes.

Hermione turns to him, something like pity in her eyes.“Stories like this never make the front page, Harry.You and Ron always make fun of me for it, but you really should take the time to read the _Prophet_ cover to cover on occasion, you know.Not everyone in the wizarding world is willing to respect muggles as human beings with rights the way Dumbledore and the Order do.Most aren’t, really.Sometimes, I wonder if Dumbledore weren’t around, whether the Ministry wouldn’t simply just go along with Grindelwald and push anti-muggle policies, especially given the peace agreements now…did you know that Durmstrang doesn’t even take muggleborn students?”She turns back to the paper, worrying at her lower lip and clearly not reading.

“ _And,_ ” she adds, “this is deeply embarrassing for the Ministry.Some mad wizard calling himself Slytherin’s heir and attacking muggles in broad daylight—it’s not very good for the Ministry’s public image, is it?”

“It’s only going to get worse, not better, you mean,” Harry mutters as Hermione winces.His appetite has long left him.“I’ll see you later, Hermione.”

He drops a hand briefly on her shoulder and leaves his barely touched toast, stalking back out toward the entrance hall, past where Daphne Greengrass is giggling at something Tom fucking Riddle has just whispered in her ear.

 _They’re all carrying on as if nothing’s wrong_ , he thinks furiously, trudging along the path towards the grounds—and then stops dead, one more detail from the previous afternoon flashing bright like a Patronus in his mind:

Riddle had been wearing a traveling cloak, and he had gone off alone with Malfoy.

Harry whips back with half a mind to confront Riddle then and there, but he and Greengrass have disappeared by the time Harry makes his way back up to the entrance hall, and he can’t follow them because he’s left the Marauder’s Map all the way up in Gryffindor Tower on the seventh floor.

…But what business would Tom Riddle of Beauxbâtons have running around the English countryside inciting old hermit wizards to proclaim themselves Slytherin’s heir and get themselves arrested for attacking muggles?If Riddle is actually a Parselmouth because he’s some distant Slytherin relation, then surely he wouldn’t benefit from that… would he?And hadn’t Sirius said that Slytherin’s final descendants, the Gaunts, had died out, anyway?Moreover, why would Riddle be working with Malfoy—and by proxy, Grindelwald—in the first place?Despite the obvious deficiencies in Riddle’s personality, Harry hadn’t had him pegged for a blood supremacist.It just doesn’t make _sense._ Harry feels as if he’s looking at a puzzle to which he’s missing all the most important pieces.

Mood souring even further and head swimming with suspicions that simply refuse to come together neatly, he stomps out towards the Black Lake before remembering that it’s currently home to the Durmstrang Ship, which is the last thing he wants to look at right now.With a yell of frustration, he changes course and trudges instead in the direction of the Quidditch pitch.The season may be canceled, but McGonagall can’t begrudge him a flight to clear his head, at least.

—

That night, he finds that Dobby has left an unsigned note from Dumbledore on his pillow.

_Harry,_

_It is time I answered the question you first posed to me at the end of your first year and explained the reason for the first of my two requests to you three weeks ago.Please come see me tomorrow night after dinner at your convenience._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …I’m sorry I said there would be a party with drunk teenagers and then only had Harry and Tom talk (/hook up, in Tom’s case) with other people. I'll just go plaster myself to the wall of shame for a hot second.


	8. Chapter 7: The Selection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry and friends continue being Nancy Drew (thanks for the image Inkblots1212), and in which Plot finally happens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated note re: my orthography/grammar choices…any time something’s part of a proper noun, I use the original UK spelling from canon (e.g., Office for Misuse of Magical Artefacts or Defence Against the Dark Arts), but when the same words appear in ordinary prose, I go with American spelling conventions. So I might very well spell Defen[c/s]e both ways in the space of a single sentence. Also, I’m using the UK approach to plural verb conjugations for collective nouns since this is all British people-PoV. Sorry if any of this bothers you ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Many, many thanks as always to Artemis1712!

7.1 The Invisibility Cloak

Dumbledore’s desk is littered with papers when Harry makes his way up on Monday night.In addition to a jumble of important-looking official documents, there is also, for whatever reason, a muggle newspaper, identifiable by its still images, peeking out from under a sheaf of parchment clearly spelled to read as gibberish to all the wrong eyes, and Harry manages to spy separate headlines reading _Protests over Annual Beauty Pageant Continue_ and _County Hall Fire, Though Quickly Contained, Claims Life of_ before the headmaster Banishes it all onto a shelf with a wave of his wand. 

“Good evening, Harry,” he greets amiably.“Allow me to congratulate you on a terrific catch on Saturday.I don’t believe I’ve quite felt my heart thunder in my chest like that for years now.”

Harry grins.“Thanks, Professor.”

“And, lest I forget—for we must soon move on to matters of a more serious nature, I’m afraid—you will be glad to hear that Professors McGonagall, Madam Hooch and I all approve wholeheartedly of your and Mr. Diggory’s new Quidditch initiative with Mr. Krum of Durmstrang.I believe Professor McGonagall will be in touch with you or Mr. Diggory with regard to the relevant logistical details.”

“Oh, that—er…” Harry hesitates.“I’m…not really so sure about that anymore, given everything else going on sir.”

There is a slight pause during which Dumbledore fixes Harry with a piercing and perhaps too-knowing stare.“I think, Harry,” he says firmly but gently, “that such a venture would be a good exercise for you, especially in light of the cancellation of our usual Quidditch season.Mr. Krum is an excellent Seeker and an upstanding young man by all accounts.Indeed, you may find it a worthwhile opportunity to get to know the foreign students better.”He smiles, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

Harry stares, uncomprehending.Is Dumbledore asking him to blindly trust Grindelwald’s students?“Okay, sir,” he says, because it doesn’t seem like he’s being given much of a choice.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore says happily.“Now, I should like to move onto the topic you are surely expecting me to address.”

“Sir, if this is about using the Cloak, I’m sorry—”

“I did not ask you here to chastise you concerning the use of your Invisibility Cloak, Harry, as I believe your adoptive parents have already, ah, beaten me to the punch there, as the saying goes.”

Harry leans back in his seat, ashamed.

“I will say, however, that the information you relayed about Mr. Riddle of Beauxbâtons has been duly noted.”

Harry perks up at that.“Is it true, then, Professor?Is he really a Parselmouth?”

“I am afraid that that is something you would be better off asking Mr. Riddle yourself if you seek the answer to that question, Harry,” Dumbledore replies."Remus mentioned that he thought the two of you were getting along rather well.”

Harry frowns.This lighthearted attitude is really not the reaction Harry had been expecting regarding his discovery about Riddle.

Harry licks his lips.“Professor, about Riddle, there’s one more thing I wanted to tell you…”He watches carefully for Dumbledore’s reaction, but the headmaster merely inclines his head to signal that he is listening. 

“I saw Riddle and Malfoy together in Hogsmeade on Saturday afternoon, and Riddle was wearing a traveling cloak.They went off into a deserted alley together; Riddle was saying something to Malfoy about a favor, and no one really recalls seeing either of them until dinner last night.” Harry had made sure of this by asking Lavender Brown and Ernie MacMillan separately; between the two of them, they have pretty much all the student gossip networks covered.Dumbledore’s face remains politely interested, but no real understanding dawns.

“I just thought, with Malfoy being one of Grindelwald’s picks for the tournament and that attack on the muggle village—”

Dumbledore looks up sharply, blue eyes penetrating.They watch each other, and Harry counts five full breaths before the headmaster finally speaks.“That would be a very grave accusation to make, Harry, if you are indeed implying what I believe you to be implying.”

His voice is quiet, but Harry feels as though he has just been shouted at.He swallows.

“Sir, I—”

“I thank you for confiding in me, Harry,” Dumbledore says then, a little gentler.“Nevertheless, the attack is not a topic which I am prepared to discuss at this point.I would encourage you, also, to be wary of blindly conflating your peers at Durmstrang with Grindelwald’s subordinates.They are students, just as you are, do not forget. 

“Now, I should like for us to move on to your Invisibility Cloak.I’d like to hear what you know or suspect about it, Harry.”

“Er, sure.Well—I know from Sirius that it’s been passed down through my family for as long as anyone remembers, so it’s really old.And that most cloaks like this need to have their charms renewed every so often, or they just get old and frayed and stop working, but that mine is exceptionally well made so doesn’t have any of those problems.Erm…” Harry wracks his brain, trying to think if there’s anything else interesting about it, but Dumbledore nods approvingly.

“Yes, that is all true of your cloak.I would add, as to its unique characteristics, that yours, unlike those one might generally find available for purchase, can shroud more than just a single wearer, and moreover, certain spells can be cast through it. 

“And now, I must finally tell you…”Suddenly, he looks much older, the deep lines of his wizened face all pulled down in an unhappy frown. 

“The night your parents were killed thirteen years ago, Harry…the reason Grindelwald sent Peter Pettigrew—indeed, the reason he recruited Pettigrew in the first place…it all ties back to your Invisibility Cloak.”

Harry feels his mouth fall open.He had suspected something like this after his conversation with Remus and Sirius over the weekend, but to hear it from Albus Dumbledore’s mouth seems to accord it a whole different weight: Gellert Grindelwald, fearsome Dark Lord and conqueror and self-declared Imperator of the Magical Scandinavian Isles (now oh-so-imaginatively rechristened the Northern Empire), running around killing indiscriminately for a dumb cloak of invisibility.

It would be laughable if Harry didn’t feeling the old rage that had been his constant companion all last year start to bubble up again. 

“Why, though?It’s just an old cloak; why would he go through all that trouble— _kill all those people_ —for my stupid cloak?Can’t he just make himself invisible?What, can he not cast Disillusionment Charms?”Dumbledore actually cracks a hint of what might be the beginnings of a smile at that, but sobers immediately and merely meets Harry’s gaze steadily.

Harry grabs the cloak from out of the hidden pocket in his robes and tosses it onto Dumbledore’s imposing oak desk.“He can _have_ it, for all I bloody care—if it’ll stop him killing people!”But even as the words leave Harry’s mouth, he knows that that isn’t quite right.

Dumbledore smiles wryly, as if seeing the trail of thoughts march through his head.Harry reaches out and runs his fingers through the slippery, silvery fabric.

“…Why was this worth dying for?” he asks in a smaller voice, watching Dumbledore carefully.“D-did…” He swallows.“Did my parents know what they died for?”

Dumbledore bows his head.“I am certain they did not.” 

Then, with what seems a great effort, he heaves himself out of his high-backed chair and strides toward one of the windows overlooking the Forbidden Forest.

“Gellert Grindelwald has been searching almost all his adult life for a certain set of ancient magical artifacts,” he says heavily, “artifacts that he believes, when assembled together, will grant him great power.He already holds one in his possession.”

Dumbledore comes back to his desk and runs his bony fingers against the Cloak.

“And he thinks my cloak is another one?”

Dumbledore meets Harry’s eyes.“I am afraid, Harry, that there is little doubt that this Invisibility Cloak is indeed one of them.The very day before Pettigrew ambushed your family, I borrowed this cloak from your father with the intention of verifying its authenticity.I believed, then, that Grindelwald would eventually suspect that it had been passed down through the Potter family, but never did I dream that he had already managed to turn a spy so close to them…it was the gravest of oversights on my part.”

“…What kind of great power will he get when he assembles all these artifacts?”

“Alas, I am afraid I am not yet ready to answer that question, save to say that should he succeed, the balance of power in the world would surely shift.”

Harry swallows.“How did he know that of all the cloaks of invisibility out there, that this one was different?”

Now, Dumbledore looks almost physically pained.“I am not at liberty to reveal that, either.”

Harry’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and he grinds the next question out very carefully.“Why weren’t you willing to tell me any of this before?”

Dumbledore closes his eyes a moment, and the bridge of his broken nose scrunches up in anguish for a moment before smoothing back out again.

“I suppose…I believed I was trying to protect you, Harry.”

Harry looks down at his hands, taking this in silently.He doesn’t quite know how he ought to feel.

“But…you’re still not willing to tell me all of it,” he accuses.“You still know much more than you’re telling me.”He doesn’t care if it comes out rude.

“Yes.The curse of one who has lived to be my age.I fear I will always know more than I shall be willing to tell you, Harry.”Harry would think Dumbledore was being glib if he did not look so old and so very sad.

“Is it because you think I’m too young?Will you tell Sirius or Remus?”

The headmaster does not reply, simply bows his head.“…I will tell you the whole story in due course.”

Harry lets out a calming breath of air from between his teeth, bites down on the _When the fuck is due course supposed to be_ clawing at his throat.“…Thank you, professor,” he says, because that seems to be the polite thing to do.“So…what now?” he asks, a little uncertainly.

“I should like for you to continue carrying the Cloak on your person, without using it, Harry.Grindelwald has no reason to suspect that it might still be in your hands at this rate, as Peter Pettigrew failed to find it the first time.”

“But wouldn’t it be safer if you held onto it, professor?Or if I put it in my vault at Gringotts?”

Finally, Dumbledore smiles, some of that familiar twinkle lighting his eyes.“I believe, Harry, that with you is the safest your cloak could possibly be.”

Harry feels his face heat and quickly looks down at his knees.He isn’t sure what he’s ever done to deserve Dumbledore paying him such a nonsensical compliment.

“Well, I believe I have taken up enough of your time tonight.”He stands up, and Harry follows suit.

“Are you going to ask me to put my name in the Goblet of Fire, sir?”

“Goodness, no.Your godfather threatened to do a whole host of unmentionable things—many of them outlawed since the Middle Ages—to both me and the Ministry officials involved in organizing the Tournament if you were somehow to end up needing to compete.”

“Which godfather?” Harry asks, equal parts mortified and gleeful.

“Both, in fact,” Dumbledore replies, perfectly cheerfully.“If pressed, I should say that Sirius’s delivery carried more bombast, and Remus’s more menace.Oh, and Harry…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I hear that Mr. Tom Riddle of Beauxbâtons has shown a certain interest in the roaring success that is your Defense Association.”

“Er…yeah, well, he came to the first meeting,” Harry says, a little evasively.

“I am pleased to hear it; my friend Nicolas Flamel has sung his praises to me, and I daresay the two of you would benefit greatly from each other’s influence.It is indeed heartening, how you are making inroads so readily with our visiting students, Harry. 

“Truly, you do yourself and all of Wizarding Britain a credit.”Dumbledore smiles gently, but, Harry thinks as he smiles back and turns down the spiral stone steps down to the seventh floor, there seems to be something melancholy about it.

—

During the Tuesday morning free period they have right before lunch, Harry grabs three sandwiches from the Great Hall at random, drags Ron and Hermione into one of the coveted library nooks Madam Pince can’t see on her usual rounds, and casts his strongest Muffling Charm.

“We’re spending the free and all of lunch here,” he declares.“I've got a lot to fill you in on.”

“Cheers,” Ron says, and immediately takes the roast beef sandwich, leaving Harry and Hermione to negotiate over the mozzarella-tomato-pesto and the ham-and-brie.They settle for splitting them half each, which Hermione achieves with a well-aimed severing charm.

Hermione hesitates for a moment, then pointedly sits down next to Harry despite there being more room next to Ron.Harry valiantly succeeds in not rolling his eyes.

“So,” he says, determined.

“Is this about Tom Riddle again or the muggle attack or Dumbledore and your cloak?” Ron asks through a mouthful of sandwich. 

“Er, Riddle and the muggle attack, mostly; Dumbledore didn’t really say much about the cloak that Sirius and Remus hadn’t already guessed,” Harry says, “but just hear me out.”

Ron and Hermione glance up at each other for a split second before apparently remembering they’re supposed to be upset with each other.Ron shrugs, looks back at Harry, and gestures for him to go on.

“So you know that muggle attack reported in yesterday morning’s paper?” 

Ron shakes his head.“Only that there was one.”He’d been too glued to Lavender all Sunday to be looped in, so Harry quickly summarizes the incident, with Hermione piping up to add in or correct details where she deems necessary.

“Blimey,” is all Ron says when they’ve finished.He leans back, thinking.“See, what I don’t get, though, is, with muggle attacks like this, s’usually worse, innit?”

“Worse, how?” cries Hermione shrilly, looking scandalized.“Five people died, Ron!”

“Well, usually takes ‘em longer to get to the scene, right?” 

Harry and Hermione look at Ron blankly, so he sets his sandwich down to explain.

“Okay, so Dad complains about this stuff all the time with the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, but he says it’s really a broader problem for Magical Law Enforcement whenever muggle-only areas are concerned. 

“Basically, when there are magical attacks like this against muggles, the Ministry sometimes don’t find out for days after it happens if no one happens to be around to recognize the incident as magic and properly report it.Like, for example, if some Dark wizard blows up a muggle residence somewhere like London or another bigger city where there are wizards mixed into the population, then the wizards will be able to recognize it and alert the Ministry, and they can take proper steps to do damage control. 

“But when it’s a totally muggle settlement—especially like small villages where information doesn’t travel out as fast, sometimes the Ministry won’t find out unless it gets reported in larger regional news outlets.And then they send in the Obliviators and Muggle-Worthy Excuse guys, but yeah, in cases like little isolated muggle villages, that can take days, I think.”

“Aren't there detection methods for that kind thing, though, like for magic being used in non-magic areas?” Harry asks, frowning.

“Like the Trace!” Hermione agrees, nodding vehemently.“And the Ministry do keep a registry of magical residences in non-magical communities, don’t they?”

“Well, yeah?But I don’t think it works like the Trace,” Ron says, scratching his chin.“Not really sure how the Trace works, honestly, but there isn’t anything like that in place for once wizards come of age, yeah?The whole point of coming of age in the first place is that we’re trusted to do magic when and where we want, responsibly.”

“I suppose you’re right…” Hermione says dubiously before her expression turns thunderous.“Well, that’s absolutely ridiculous!Don’t they have a team in the Improper Use of Magic Office keeping track of local muggle news precisely so that they can ferret out these types of incidents or something like that?Isn’t that the whole _point_ of the Improper Use of Magic Office?”

Ron shrugs.“Not a priority, I guess, and they already lack resources and manpower for about a hundred other things besides, Dad’s always saying.And anyway, muggles just invent all sorts of mad explanations for the little things, and the Ministry usually get wind of the big things in time to go back and smooth things over.”

Harry leans back against the cushions of his seat, processing this new information.

“The point is,” he says eventually, “I saw Riddle and Malfoy skulking around alone together in Hogsmeade, and Riddle was wearing a traveling cloak!”He repeats the gist of what he’d told Dumbledore the previous night to the much more receptive audience of Ron and Hermione.

“So some blood supremacist nutter goes out on a rampage in an out-of-the-way muggle village the same afternoon an Apparition-licensed Riddle and Malfoy suspiciously wander off alone, and oddly enough, the authorities find out right away when normally they might take days,” Ron summarizes. 

…This isn’t making a lick more sense than before.He looks up at Hermione.“Don’t suppose we’ve any way of figuring out what village was attacked?”

“I tried, but we don’t get any muggle radio out here,” Hermione says regretfully, “so we don’t have an effective way of accessing their news ourselves.I wrote my parents yesterday morning after breakfast to ask if they’ve heard or read anything odd, but they haven’t responded yet.”

“Did Dumbledore say anything about it last night?” Ron follows up.

“No, though I did try to ask him. _But_ ,” Harry adds, “I saw a muggle newspaper on Dumbledore’s desk when I was up there last night.”

“Oh!” exclaims Hermione, her eyes growing very wide.“So maybe he is following up on it!Did you see where the paper was from?”

“No,” Harry replies, frustrated.“I don’t even think it was related at all.He had it open to some page about a beauty pageant, and the only other article heading I could see was about how someone died in a fire at a County Hall or something.”

Hermione frowns.“That doesn’t sound particularly promising…”She leans back, nibbling distractedly at half a sandwich.“He didn’t say anything about it, even when you asked?”

“Not much, no.”

“Think Dumbledore knows more about the incident he isn’t letting on?” Ron asks, dusting crumbs off his hands.

Harry bites doggedly into his neglected sandwich and chews minimally before swallowing.“He must do.This is too clearly related to Grindelwald for him not to.”

“Not necessarily,” Hermione says in a small voice.“I hate to say it, Harry, but there _is_ also the possibility that this wasn’t Grindelwald-related at all, but rather just a mad old lunatic finally losing his last shred of sanity…”

Harry just glares at her, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Maybe the reason the Ministry was called in so quickly was thanks to Dumbledore?” Ron muses.“If he knew the village might be a Grindelwald target, it makes sense that he’d have been having it watched, yeah?”

“But if that’s true, why should Grindelwald want to go after a specific muggle village in the first place?” Hermione asks reasonably.

Harry hums, thinking back to his conversation with Dumbledore the night before, and the answer comes to him so suddenly he actually stands up, slapping a palm against his forehead.

“I’m such an idiot!” he seethes.“Dumbledore practically _told_ me what the attack was about; I just didn’t put it together at the time because he wasn’t answering my questions directly!”He sits back down and looks from Ron to Hermione, excited.

“The Cloak _is_ related!” He pats the pocket where it’s tucked safely into his school robes.“So when we spoke last night, he told me that Grindelwald’s after some set of old lost artifacts or something, and apparently my Invisibility Cloak is one of them.Don’t you see?I bet you anything there was another artifact in that village—or Grindelwald at least thought there was.”

“What else did he say about these lost artifacts?” Hermione asks.

“Nothing much, just that Grindelwald mustn’t be allowed to get his hands on all of them no matter what because if he assembles them all then he’ll get great power or something.”

“Your dad’s old cloak?A lost magical artifact?”Ron’s eyes land on the hand Harry has covering his pocket.

“I dunno,” Harry shrugs, “Sirius says it’s been in my family for ages.”

“A set…” Hermione’s brows wrinkle.“A set of what, though?What sort of a set of magical artifacts would a cloak of invisibility belong to?A cloak and…dagger?A set of clothes?Maybe your ancestors were magical tailors?”

Harry shrugs.“Dumbledore didn’t say, just that Grindelwald already has one of them.If I’ve got another one, then there’s probably at least one more, right?”

“Magical armor,” Ron says, face completely serious.“You know how Grindelwald’s supporters are all obsessed with Medieval purism or whatever and want to traipse around the country wielding swords and wands together like those old Crusader mages in clunky helmets with red feathers sticking out the top?Imagine Malfoy running around like that.”

Hermione rolls her eyes as Harry guffaws at the image.“But what would an ancient magical artifact be doing in a small muggle village?”And then her eyes widen as she realizes the answer to her own question.“Unless it was never about the muggle village; it was the hermit wizard who lived there!If Grindelwald stole it from the wizard and then had him framed and Kissed for a crime against muggles, then no one would ever know it went missing!”

Harry frowns as she stands up, starting to pace.“We need to figure out where this attack happened.Dumbledore definitely wouldn't say?”

“He said he wasn’t willing to discuss it,” Harry mutters.

“Well, we can’t sit around here whinging about it,” she says practically.“Come on, we’re going to the Owlery.We’re putting in an order for some muggle newspapers.”

7.2 The Parselmouth

Riddle corners Harry on his way up to the DA meeting the next afternoon, grabs him firmly by the wrist and drags him around a corner into a nearby alcove.

“Riddle?What the fu—”

Riddle leans right into Harry’s personal space to speak against the shell of his ear.“You’ve been following me around, Harry.”The damp puff of his breath sends a shiver down Harry’s spine, and he freezes for a moment before remembering to push back. 

“What?No, _you’ve_ been following _me_ around and refusing to leave _me_ alone for the past however many days!”Harry shoves at Riddle’s chest and tries to simultaneously wrench his wrist out of his grasp, but the other boy’s grip just tightens, his face a blank mask.

“Fucking let _go_ of me, will you?”

Riddle holds Harry’s gaze for a full three breaths before he smiles thinly and releases him, though he still stands uncomfortably close, his tall, lean form boxing Harry in so that Harry, rubbing at his sore wrist, has to look up to meet his eyes.

“The fuck is your problem?”

“I should be asking that of you, Harry.It was you that first night we arrived, following me around the dungeons. _Spying_ on me _._ ”

Harry’s eyes widen, and he doesn’t respond for a moment.Something flickers briefly in Riddle’s eyes—so dark in the poor light of the little alcove—but he seems content to wait Harry out.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry replies, confident that he can bluff his way out of this.Even if Riddle had caught a glimpse of his feet when he’d stumbled, Harry knows the Cloak had still hidden the vast majority of his body.

“We’ve been over this, Harry.You’re really quite an awful liar.”

Harry swallows but otherwise doesn’t move, refusing to be the first one to break eye contact.Riddle chuckles lowly, the sound warm and inviting, and Harry actually draws closer before catching himself and planting his feet firmly and crossing his arms, defiant.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether or not you admit it to me.There’s no need to be so defensive; it isn’t as if I’m going to benefit any by telling anyone you were wandering around the castle stalking me after hours.”

“I wasn’t stalking you!And I _know_ you didn’t see me,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “There’s no way you can be sure it was me.”

Riddle’s smile sharpens, sharklike.“Do you really think not?” he purrs.He traces a long finger down the red trim of Harry’s Gryffindor robes, and Harry jerks away.

“What the fuck, Riddle?” he squawks.

“I imagine you were wearing a cloak of invisibility or something like it that night?I caught a glimpse of your shoes, Harry,” Riddle drawls airily, sounding bored.“You quite helpfully wore them again the very next day, and then again Thursday, and then both days on the weekend as well.There’s a spot of dirt on the front of the left shoe you really should clean off.”

Harry feels his jaw fall open…because that makes total sense, and Harry is a colossal idiot.He’d tripped back over his feet that night, _facing_ Riddle, and his cloak must have flapped up enough for Riddle to see.

Shit.

Well, in for a penny…He licks his lips, watching Riddle’s face carefully.“So…what _were_ you doing prowling around the dungeons that night, then?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

Harry sets his mouth in an obstinate line, determined to stare the other boy down.“Why did you wait this long to bother me about it, then?” he asks instead.

Riddle doesn’t answer for a moment.“Your beloved _Dumbledore_ , of all people, stopped me after dinner last night for a chat,” he says then, apparently apropos of nothing.

“…Congratulations?”Harry really isn’t sure what else to say to that.Why won’t Riddle just _go away_?Actually, why is Harry still here, letting himself be backed against a wall with Riddle so close he can feel the heat from his body?He considers just shoving past and heading off to the DA, which he’s surely late for by now.

But he doesn’t.

“He…twinkled at me,” Riddle says after a slight pause.

Harry nods sagely.“Ah.Yeah, he does that.A lot.”

Riddle wrinkles his nose.“A lot?Really?What, does he think it makes him seem charming and mysterious?”

“Maybe, how should I know?He’s old and eccentric, likes knitting and bowling,” Harry says, Riddle’s annoyance helping him find his footing in the conversation.“He’s a bit like you in that, actually—acting all mysterious and always coming off as if he knows more than everyone else,” he observes, a little horrified yet also a little gleeful that Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore could be anything alike.“Though I guess in his case, he probably does know more than everyone else.”

This time, Riddle actually scowls. 

“What?” Harry prods, interest piqued."Do you not like Dumbledore?He’s letting you take Hogwarts classes and all.”

Riddle merely sniffs.“Funny old geezer, your headmaster.”His expression suddenly turns dark and intense in that way of his, and he steps fractionally closer to Harry, who presses himself back against the cold stone wall in a futile attempt to win back some space.“Did you know, he accused me of being particularly fond of the snake statues down near the Slytherin dungeons.”

Wait…Dumbledore actually just went up to him and brought it up?Harry stops in his tracks, thinking quickly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hopefully, he sounds as confused as possible.

Riddle just sighs theatrically and slips his hands into his pockets, smiling indulgently down into Harry’s eyes.“An awful, awful liar, Harry Potter.” 

Then he leans down and in, his nose practically brushing Harry’s cheek, and _hisses_ a low stream of air right up against his ear.Damp, warm breath tickles against the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck, sending a shiver straight through his gut down to his toes.

Harry yelps, trying to jerk back, but he only succeeds in jamming his shoulder against the hard stone wall Riddle already has him backed up against.

“There’s no need to act so surprised, Harry,” Riddle purrs, still pressed right up against him.This close up, Riddle’s eyes are pools of black, and Harry can make out exactly how blown his pupils are, compensating for the poor lighting.“I know you know.”

They stare at each other for an interminably long moment, Harry’s heart pounding so loud in his chest that Riddle can surely hear it. 

After what seems an age, Riddle frowns infinitesimally and draws back with a muttered string of French under his breath, looking almost…a little put out?Harry releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

…There’s a realization dawning here that he doesn’t want to examine too closely yet.So he barrels down the other route:

“Hang on, are you _admitting_ you’re a Parselmouth?”

Riddle watches him with that little frown a moment longer before he shows his teeth, sharp and white behind his smirking lips.“I haven’t admitted to anything, Harry.”

“You literally just spoke snake at me!”

“How would you know?There aren't any academic or historic records of what Parseltongue sounds like.”

“That doesn’t matter when I _heard_ you just now.And that first night when you first arrived…that was a lot louder than what you just did, though.”He pauses.“What were you even doing, muttering Parseltongue to yourself down in the dungeons?”

Riddle shrugs, still smiling.“The snake statues down in the dungeons talk, too.Just a different language from the gargoyles and portraits.I wanted to know more about the castle.Are you going to spread this around Hogwarts to all your little friends?”

Harry purses his lips, frowning. “Just to be absolutely clear: Dumbledore knows you’re a Parselmouth.”

“Yes.Thanks to your diligent efforts.”Riddle is starting to look bored again.

“And he doesn’t care?”

An unimpressed lift of an eyebrow.“Why should he care?”

“I dunno, maybe because it’s associated with all sorts of Dark Arts?”

Riddle scoffs.“Ah, yes, the English academic obsession with Light and Dark and all the arbitrary little lines they spend ages drawing.Parseltongue is just a language, Harry.”

“You don’t believe in Light and Dark?”

“It isn't a matter of _belief_.If you trace back the Magiography for the spells generally classified as Dark, you’ll find that the categorizations are mostly all random, or worse, political.There isn’t any scientific rigor to the current classification systems at all; spells conceived of as Dark under most governmental regimes do have a tendency to share certain traits, but these are only starting to be explored with anything approaching sense in the literature.”

Harry frowns.He’s not particularly interested in academia, but he isn’t about to let Riddle know that most of that went straight over his head.“How do you speak Parseltongue?” he asks instead.

Riddle shrugs, finally stepping away from Harry so he can lean a shoulder against the wall and rest his temple against the stone; a silky curl of dark hair falls just over his brow, and Harry’s fingers suddenly itch to sweep it aside.At this angle, they’re directly eye to eye.“It’s a genetic trait, by all accounts, but my mother doesn’t speak it.She raised me alone, and I never knew any of her family or my father.Riddle is a muggle name.”

Harry stares.“You don’t know your family at all aside from your mother?”Somehow, he wouldn’t have expected that about Riddle, who is so confident and carries himself with such a self-possessed air.

Another unconcerned shrug.“It isn’t that uncommon a narrative.”He straightens from his side-slouch so that he’s once again looking down at Harry.Then the corners of his lips curve up into a pleased smile.“So you won’t go telling the castle I talk to snakes, then.”

“I won’t?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Like you said, prejudice against the Dark Arts; the obvious general distrust by most of this school of anything to do with Salazar Slytherin, except by actual Slytherins; it’s an unusual ability and simply something about me I’d prefer to keep to myself…and you now as well, of course,” he lists, his eyes boring into Harry’s with that dark and impenetrable intensity.“Surely you can understand that.” 

“It would interfere with your model student image, you mean.Because almost all those are valid reasons for me _to_ tell,” Harry feels the need to point out.

“I can’t help whom I was born to or what I’ve inherited from them, Harry,” Riddle replies, voice low and even, gaze unusually solemn.

“...Fine, I won’t tell,” Harry finds himself agreeing, because irritatingly enough, with the weight of the Invisibility Cloak pressing against him from the inside of his pocket, he can relate to that almost viscerally.And if Dumbledore seems to think it’s okay…

“Good.”A sunny smile, and Harry’s traitorous stomach is twisting itself into knots.

 _Get a grip, Potter_ , Harry thinks to himself.

“Let’s go, in that case,” Riddle says, already a couple of paces away.“Don’t you have a Defence Association meeting to run?”

“What, you’re going to keep coming to those?”

Riddle pauses and throws Harry a disapproving look over his shoulder.“Of course.I signed up, didn’t I?”

“You don’t have to come to every meeting,” Harry tries, past caring that he probably sounds plaintive.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss _your_ meetings, Harry.”Another smile, sharper this time.“Come on.We’re past late, and I want to duel you again.”He turns back around and proceeds up the east staircase.

…Fuck.Riddle definitely is coming onto him, isn’t he? 

And Harry… Harry’s _flattered_ , he realizes—because, Cho and her weird situation with Cedric last term notwithstanding, girls have always only looked at him with cautious skepticism at best, and Tom Riddle—while admittedly not a girl—is cool, confident, intelligent, and liked by everybody, not to mention unbearably attractive (it’s okay for Harry to admit all this to himself because everyone else agrees on it), with his silky dark hair and his big dark eyes and his bloody knife’s-edge cheekbones—Tom Riddle is effortlessly _popular,_ and Harry, skinny and awkward and argumentative, just isn’t the type that people like that go for.Something twists tight and hot in his gut as he recalls the way Riddle had held Louisa MacDonald Saturday night, the way he had fucking _winked_ at Harry. 

…But also, based on all the available evidence—including Fleur Delacour and Cedric’s offhand comments—he is apparently a total slag, and Harry scowls, face heating up as he thinks of all the other places Riddle’s tongue has probably already been.Not to mention that he’s got some sort of dodgy plot going on with Malfoy, of all people; Harry is still certain that must have had _something_ to do with the attack, no matter how willing Dumbledore may be to believe the best of him.

He gives himself a shake.Dumbledore might want him to build inter-school bridges or whatever, but it doesn’t mean Harry has to choose Tom Riddle of all people as his French friend-liaison.He won’t be taken in by charming smiles or empty flirting—which Riddle probably aims at everything that moves, Harry thinks with a pang—he decides.

But the boy in question, a smug smirk ghosting at the edges of that stupidly charming smile, keeps pestering despite Harry’s increasingly futile attempts to wave him off, and Harry finally agrees to another duel (purely to shut him up, he tells himself firmly—and if it’s a tiny bit fun or gets his heart racing or anything like that, well, that’s just an inconsequential bonus), this time with a crowd of onlookers watching from the beginning and Fred and George loudly and unabashedly running a betting pool on the sidelines.

Harry feels off balance the entire time, and Riddle wins, his expression insufferably smug as he watches Harry through dark, dancing eyes. 

7.3 The Goblet of Fire

“Hey, Harry,” Ron says Thursday morning before breakfast, coming over to join him by his bed, an unusually determined look on his face.“I’ve decided.I’m going to put my name down in the Goblet of Fire.”

“Yeah?You’ll get an earful from Hermione.She might even tell your mum.”

Ron’s expression darkens.“Well, Fred and George have already done it, and they only got a Howler apiece when Angelina told.And sod Hermione.She’s clearly lost her mind—been spending time with Cormac McLaggen, can you believe,” Ron spits, as if Cormac McLaggen is some sort of awful disease.

Harry is half tempted to point out that Ron is being awfully hypocritical about Hermione’s choices with regard to her own social life, but this would probably just turn Ron against him as well, so he holds his tongue.

“You really not going to enter, Harry?Everyone keeps asking me if you will.”

Harry flops down on his back and stares up at the red-and-gold canopy of his four-poster.

“It isn’t as if it hasn’t occurred to me, you know.It sounds like it’d be exciting, in a sort of scaring-you-shitless sort of way.”He looks up at Ron, and they share a grin.

“But… what Sirius and Remus want matters to me.A lot.Yeah, part of me is annoyed, because they’re coddling me, sort of.But…” and he knows Ron won’t really get this next part, not really, because he's always been surrounded by parents and siblings looking over his shoulder, telling him to do this or be that, “but it’s sort of nice to be fretted over—nice that they _care_ about me enough to fret, you know?And that’s…” Harry swallows, not having any idea how to put this next bit into words.

But Ron, smiling down at him, seems to know what he’s trying to say anyway.Harry’s never discussed the Dursleys directly with Ron or Hermione, but Ron had seen the bars on Harry’s window the summer before second year, and Harry will never forget the way Hermione had cried almost more than he did when he showed her the approved adoption papers, with Sirius’s flamboyant signature overlaid with a vibrantly purple Ministry stamp.

Harry accompanies Ron down to the entrance hall, where he enters his name to mild fanfare, and then spends breakfast hammering out details regarding Seeker practice with Cedric and Krum at the center table.Cedric has somehow already managed to recruit Cho, both Hufflepuff Beaters, and one Ravenclaw Beater, as well as Fred and George on an on-and-off basis.

“They said they’re very busy with business this term and won’t always be available,” Cedric says, a little doubtfully.“And I did ask the Slytherins, but well, Crabbe and Goyle…” he trails off, making a face, “and Avery said no.”

Harry tries not to look too relieved.

“I also haff a classmate who is interested in joining as a Beater; she is having her broom mailed over from Durmstrang currently,” Krum says with his usual dour air.

“Great.With all this, we’ll be all set to start on Monday,” Cedric continues.“McGonagall’s allocated us a budget for broom and gear maintenance, and I’ve spoken to Madam Hooch about scheduling and everything; she thinks it’s a great idea.”

“Why did they have to cancel Quidditch in the first place if they’re just going to continue to let us use the pitch anyway?” Harry wonders.

“Something about security at games, I think,” Cedric says absently, pulling out a dauntingly thick sheaf of what looks like Ancient Runes homework.

“Yeah, must be, I guess…”

It occurs to Harry that with Riddle and his Beauxbâtons friends attending the DA and now Krum and his Durmstrang friend at Seeker practice, he will, if he’s not careful, end up something of a poster boy for the Department of International Magical Cooperation.Given how much abuse he’d taken from the Ministry last year for speaking out against their policy of non-interference and appeasement towards Grindelwald’s acts against muggles, it really is too ironic for him to have ended up here, he thinks darkly.

—

A peculiar, excited restlessness buzzes about the Great Hall at dinner on Friday evening.The Goblet of Fire, sitting regally on its pedestal, has been moved from the entrance hall up to the front of the Great Hall to occupy the spot otherwise usually reserved for the Sorting Hat.Malfoy is not, for once, holding court at the Slytherin table but rather eating dejectedly at the center table for the visiting schools, looking even more drawn and pale than he’d been over the past two weeks.

Up at the high table, Dumbledore and the other two heads of school have been joined by Ludovic Bagman of the Department of Magical Sports and Games and Bartemius Crouch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as well as two government diplomats from Magical France and the Northern Empire, whose names Harry promptly forgets after hearing.

Professor Slughorn had once tried, during one unfortunately memorable Slug Club meeting Harry hadn’t been savvy enough to get himself out of, to push Harry into conversation with both the extremely dry and distant “Barty” and the conversely too-familiar “Ludo.” _You really must keep your options open, you know, Harry,_ Slughorn had said. _Whether you pursue Quidditch professionally or choose the Auror’s path, you can’t go wrong, dear boy.You’ll go far yet!_

Harry recounts these particularly awkward encounters to Ron, who snickers.“Ah, good ol’ Sluggy,” he says, then his expression darkens.“No eye for quality, though.Won’t stop asking me about what Percy’s been up to since he’s been promoted.Reckon he’ll do some sort of special Slug Club party with the champions after they’re chosen?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, groaning at the very thought, “that by itself is enough to disincentivize me from entering, even without the risk of death, to be honest.”

Eventually, some time after dessert is cleared away, Dumbledore stands up from his seat at the high table.With a wave of his wand, all the candles in the Hall save those back by the door go out, leaving the Great Hall lit predominantly by the eerie blue-white of the Goblet’s flame.

“I believe it is nearly time,” he announces.“Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask that they please come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber”—he indicates the door behind the staff table—“where they will receive their first instructions.Ah, here we are.”

The flame in the Goblet has suddenly turned a bright red, and two sparks streak out, arcing down to land neatly in Dumbledore’s outstretched fingers.

“First, the two champions from the Durmstrang Institute,” he reads in a strong, clear voice, “Victor Krum…and Draco Malfoy!”

“ _What?_ ” cry Ron and Harry together, though it gets lost in the thunder of the crowd as the Durmstrang delegates, joined by all of Slytherin House, all stand and roar with approval as the rest of the hall clap politely. 

“Bravo, Viktor, bravo!” cries Karkaroff, the headmaster of Durmstrang, who has stood up.The diplomat at his side looks distinctly put out, a grimace twisting his pale features.

“What in the world does the Goblet of Fire see in _Malfoy?_ ” Harry whispers darkly. 

“Dunno, but he looks like he’s shitting bricks,” Ron remarks—and it’s true: Malfoy does look suitably panicked, Harry thinks with a rare sadistic glee as Malfoy and an ever-stoic Krum rise together from the center table and proceed down towards the high table, where Dumbledore directs them towards the small room adjoining the Hall.

Eventually, the cheers die down, and the Goblet’s flames turn blue once more.

“Oh, Harry, who do you think it’ll be from Beauxbâtons?” Hermione asks.“Riddle?”

“He certainly thinks so,” Harry mutters, eyes roving briefly to that dark head of hair across the hall.Riddle is speaking animatedly to Marietta Edgecomb while Louisa MacDonald, sitting on his other side, looks on, her expression uncertain.

The flames glow red again, then, and another two streaks of flame shoot out into Dumbledore’s waiting hand.

“From Beauxbâtons Academy, Fleur Delacour…and Tom Riddle!”

Another round of applause, and Riddle and Delacour, both looking quite pleased, rise from the Ravenclaw and center tables, respectively, and proceed down the center aisle to be herded into the side room after Krum and Malfoy.

When the Goblet glows blue again, the tension of every Hogwarts student and teacher in the room is strung so taut that Harry’s skin crawls with it.

The flame turns red a third time, and two final sparks fly out.

“And, finally, from Hogwarts…” Dumbledore reaches out to catch the two slips of glowing parchment, “Cedric Diggory, and…” he hesitates a split second, his suddenly grave eyes coming up from the second slip and meeting Harry’s—and Harry somehow, with an inexplicable curl of dread, knows what the name will be before it leaves his mouth. 

“Harry Potter.”

It is as if all sound stops around him, though he knows, distantly, that the entire Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables are exploding in cheers all around him.Harry holds Dumbledore’s serious gaze, slack-jawed, and then, the dread roiling nauseatingly in his gut, he turns to meet Remus’s eyes at the head table.

Remus is standing up, his features twisted into something unrecognizable by a combination of incredulity and anger.But then his eyes find Harry’s, and whatever it is he sees in Harry’s face seems to ground him, even as his expression morphs into something pinched and worried—and Harry understands what he’s trying to convey there, over almost the entire length of a hall full of roaring teenagers:

_I believe you wouldn’t have, and I’m not angry—not at you._

A hand tight on his shoulder.“Harry, you have to go!”It’s Hermione.Harry meets her uncertain gaze, swallows, and nods.He looks to Ron, but his expression is blank and closed off. 

He rises and makes his way after Cedric, who is farther down the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables and waiting for him with a small smile, but it falters when Harry entirely fails to return it.

They meet Dumbledore at the long staff table, and Harry opens his mouth to protest, though he isn’t quite sure what to say.

Dumbledore schools his grim expression into a warm smile for Cedric, waves him on, and then meets Harry’s eyes.

“Sir,” he says, quickly, voice low, “it can’t be me, I never put my name in, I swear—”

He is cut off when, beside them, the flame in the Goblet suddenly glows red again.A flurry of hushed whispers descends upon the Great Hall as this time, a single red spark soars out.Harry can feel every single eye fixed on Dumbledore as he reaches out and plucks it out of the air.

The hushed whispers dissipate, and, uneasily, a strange silence settles.

Dumbledore stills for several moments too long before he meets Harry’s gaze again, his expression unreadable.He briefly shows him the slip of parchment—eleven block letters in plain black ink, written in an unfamiliar, tidy hand—before clearing his throat and reading it out.

“Harry Potter.”

Twice. 

Harry hasn’t put his name in at all, but it has come out of the Goblet of Fire _twice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: For those wondering, I imagine that what Tom said in French around the middle of the chapter was something along the lines of “Mais que veut-il que je fasse, putain…” Lovingly and fondly, of course (to the extent he’s capable of that).  
> Tom PoV next! =)


	9. Chapter 8: The Six Champions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry loses his temper at government officials and Tom introduces himself to the press.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: the content of the three short lines in French here aren’t really important, so I’ve provided translations in the chapter endnotes.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my friend [Artemis1219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1219/pseuds/Artemis1219)!

8.1 The Waiting Room

Tom casts an eye around the damp and drafty little room.The bronze sconces along the far wall are all lit with candles, but somehow, their flames fail to reach the corners and properly light the space, giving off a feeling of what Tom imagines some would consider claustrophobia.

Malfoy and Krum are tucked into opposite corners, the former standing ramrod straight while the latter slouches, both looking quite lost in their own thoughts.Malfoy in particular looks awful, his too-fine features pinched, as if his worst nightmare has come true.And perhaps it has, but that’s just deserts, really, Tom thinks, even if the Goblet’s judgment— _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people, really?—clearly leaves much to be desired.Malfoy had cut his own bargain, made his own choices.

Fleur, rather predictably, has cornered a besotted-looking Diggory by the door and is chattering away in her stilted Eengleesh, though judging by the dreamy expression on Diggory’s face, it isn’t clear that he would notice even if she were to suddenly start speaking Troll.

And finally, Harry.Twice declared champion by the Goblet of Fire.Dumbledore’s favorite.The boy who lived.

Tom doesn’t quite manage to suppress his smile.Of course Harry would be chosen when Tom so generously put his name forward.There never could have been a question about that.Tom has never had any interest in gambling, but he thinks he would have here, had he had the opportunity.Lovely Harry, with his ridiculously green eyes and improbably disastrous hair, who can match Tom spell for spell and duel him to a draw (though Tom is, evidently, still superior); who meets his gaze with neither fear nor blind adoration but rather a steely, determined defiance; who actually stands up to challenge Tom when he lets slip glimpses of what lies beneath the genial, smiling façade.(And, of course, it helps that Harry is oh-so-delectably amusing to wind up—his cheeks flush the prettiest shade of pink when he’s embarrassed.)Harry, who Tom suspects shares a _wand core_ with him, based on what he’s gleaned from the hours he’s spent reading up on wand lore in the Hogwarts library recently. 

How could he not be chosen as Hogwarts champion if Tom is Beauxbâtons champion? 

What Tom did not expect, though, was for it to happen _twice._ How had it been managed, and why?Tom has his suspicions, of course, but for now…

He approaches Harry where he’s leaned against a leaded-glass window with a view of the lake; under the faint light of the rising moon, the other boy looks paler than usual, his eyes glassy like marbles, and his mouth drawn into a thin line.

“All this holdup just for you, Harry.”

Harry glances distractedly at Tom, his brows knitted in a frown, then directs his gaze back out towards the grounds, clearly uninterested in conversation.

Well, that simply won’t do. 

Tom steps directly in front of him and leans his shoulder against the wall so that they’re face to face.Harry stubbornly refuses to look up at him, though his lips thin ever so slightly. 

“You really are doing an admirable job of looking sorry for yourself,” Tom notes, and Harry stiffens.“Though not quite as good a job as Malfoy over there, I’m afraid.Perhaps you’ll need to practice that more too, along with your lying.”

For the very slightest of moments, the corners of Harry’s lips quirk up ever so slightly and a smile threatens to overtake the frown, but he manages to twist it into a scowl.Finally, he turns that bright green glare on Tom.“Your sympathy is touching, Riddle,” he replies acidly. 

“Sympathy?Is _that_ what you’re after?Most people would be proud to see their name come out of the Goblet of Fire twice, I should think.”He should be _grateful,_ really, but Tom knows better than to tell him so at this juncture.

“Well, then either you’re mistaken or I’m not most people.My goddads didn’t want me to enter.”

For reasons unfathomable to Tom, this is something Harry cares deeply about.“And what about what you want?” he asks, frowning.

“In this case, what they want _is_ what I want.Haven’t we had this conversation already?”Badly suppressed irritation, on Harry, is a tightening at the corners of his eyes and in his jaw, as if he’s grinding his teeth.His hands are fisted so tightly his knuckles are pearl-white.

“Do you suppose you’ll need to complete each task twice?” Tom wonders aloud, flashing the wide-eyed smile that never fails to flush Harry’s cheeks that delicious shade of pink.“The Goblet’s decision is considered a magically binding contract, after all.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get the words out, the door to their little room bursts open, and in stride a whole host of bustling, murmuring adults led by a grave-faced Albus Dumbledore.Professors McGonagall and Lupin chatter incessantly in worried tones at him while he seems to be deep in conversation with the thin and severe-looking British Ministry’s head of Magical Law Enforcement—Bartemius Crouch, Tom recalls.Maxime and Igor Karkaroff, chatting easily with the Sports head, Ludovic Bagman (clearly a sportsman _quite_ long past his prime, judging by the heft of his paunch), bring up the rear.

Harry, without a backward glance towards Tom, heads straight for Lupin, who immediately stops vociferating at Dumbledore in favor of placing his hands on Harry’s shoulders to speak to him in low, serious tones; he seems to be explaining something.

Tom holds back a tut of irritation and allows himself to be gathered up along with Fleur to be fussed over by Maxime.He tunes out of her inconsequential stream of praise (“ _Oh, mais vous ne pouvez pas imaginer à quel point je suis fière de vous deux!_ ”1), his eyes wandering over to the room’s other occupants.

Karkaroff is fawning over Krum like a mother hen while Malfoy, clearly dismissed and unwanted, stands off to the side, watching the Hogwarts corner with something dark lurking behind his gaze.Cedric Diggory and McGonagall hover a step back from where an increasingly irate Harry is deep in conversation with the government officials, Dumbledore, and Lupin.

“ _Mais qu’attendons-nous, là, Madame?_ 2” Fleur asks Maxime, who replies that there seems to have been some sort of mix-up regarding Harry.

How silly.It wasn’t a _mi_ _x-up_ , Tom thinks, watching as Lupin’s scarred face contorts more dangerous the longer Ludovic Bagman natters on.Tom edges slightly closer to hear what’s being discussed as Crouch steps forward and begins to speak, but—

“ _I NEVER PUT MY NAME IN THAT BLOODY CUP!_ ” Harry’s voice rings out, thunderous, for all the room to hear.

A stunned silence falls. 

Harry Potter has just openly shouted and sworn at the highest-ranking member of the Ministry after Fudge himself.Tom knows (from careful prodding of Susan Bones and Marietta Edgecombe) that Crouch has been gunning for the top job for years now, and that he almost succeeded in forcing a vote of no confidence in May.He had been thwarted by that suspiciously timed peace treaty with the Northern Empire, which conveniently threw the Ministry into too much a state of frenzy brokering trade deals and lifting or renegotiating sanctions to be able to even consider the possibility of changing regimes.

Then again, perhaps Harry’s behavior isn’t all that surprising.After all, Tom did just spend five straight evenings poring over the Hogwarts library’s _Daily Prophet_ archives in an effort to learn more about him.Article by article, he had read his way through the previous year's saga of a fifteen-year-old Harry Potter’s outspoken campaign against the British Ministry’s policy of non-interference vis-à-vis Grindelwald’s violence against muggles who wandered too close to his territory. The press had clearly taken delight in painting him, a mere schoolboy, as perhaps the most dangerous anti-Ministry element in all of Magical Great Britain, frequently portraying him as unhinged and out of control; indeed, one particularly spirited article went so far as to label him seditious and in desperate need of mind healing.It is no wonder, really, that Harry’s anti-establishment tendencies run deeper than a simple dislike of Fudge, that weak-willed excuse for a head of government.It is absolutely _delightful._

“ _Il est un peu trop soupe au lait, tu trouves pas, Tom_?3” Fleur whispers, wrinkling her nose in distaste at Harry’s indignant gesticulating and somehow-still-rising voice.

Tom shrugs, watching the escalating display with interest.Dumbledore is still wearing that heavily grave expression, the lines around his downturned mouth deep like crevasses, and Crouch looks like he’s been slapped, his gray toothbrush mustache quivering as if he can’t quite believe none of his Aurors has come out to arrest Harry on the spot.Lupin hovers worriedly over Harry, a hand white-pale against his shoulder as Crouch and Bagman start talking again.

“How can I be bound by a magical contract I didn’t even enter into?” Harry shouts furiously in response to something Crouch said.He turns to Dumbledore, as if expecting the old man to miraculously be able to override the magical decree of a millennia-old artifact, but Dumbledore only shakes his head minutely, meeting Harry’s beseeching gaze with that serious, blue stare.

“The magics binding the Goblet of Fire are older than almost any we know in the West,” he says somberly.“We possess only one record of a chosen champion refusing to compete, from back in the middle of the sixteenth century.He spontaneously combusted upon refusing to proceed when it came time for his first task.Once entered…” he trails off.

The rotund Bagman claps his hands loudly into the uneasy silence, turning to Crouch.“Well, if that’s all cleared up, then…I know it’s occurred to some of us, but do we know if Mr. Potter will need to complete each task twice, Barty?”

Crouch shakes his head.“While this situation certainly is unprecedented, the rules provide only that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.There is no reason to read any more complexity into the decree than necessary.”There’s a hard set to the line of his rather weak jaw, and Tom bites back a pleased smile.At least the old man knows the rules.

“Well, then!” Bagman looks around the room happily.“Not a bad way to kick this all off, eh?A little bit of drama?” 

Harry, clearly unamused by said drama, looks murderous.

No one else says anything, though, so Crouch, adjusting his hat, which is the same nondescript grayish color as the rest of his robes, steps forward to address the room at large.“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he announces, “so we will not be telling you what it is.Courage in the face of the unknown is a very important quality in a wizard…” he pauses, meeting each of the champions’ eyes in turn with his own pale, beady ones. 

“Now, since this tournament revival is emblematic of a new age in Wizarding history, the Second Task will be designed to test your skills in cooperation: it will be a team task in which each champion is paired with one from a different school.”

There’s a collective murmur at that.Maxime’s large hand tightens on Tom’s shoulder, but he hardly notices, his attention busy wandering over the other champions to land on the mulish set of Harry’s jaw.If he’s paired with anyone other than Harry…

“How are the pairs to be assigned?” Malfoy asks, crossing his arms over his chest.He runs a dubious eye over the rest of the champions.

“The teams will be revealed to you after you have completed the first task,” Crouch answers.“We will provide further details as to the third and final task at a later date.The first task will take place on Saturday, November the twenty-third, in front of the other students and a panel of judges comprising the headmasters of each school and Mr. Bagman.As a show of international solidarity, both Ministers for Magic Fudge of Great Britain and Dulaurier of France…” and here, his face scrunches up in distaste he makes no effort to conceal, “as well as Imperator Grindelwald, of the Northern Empire, will join us to spectate each of the tasks.”

This elicits reactions all around.Tom’s eyes dart to Malfoy, and true to expectations, his look of surprise is laughably forced.He’s almost as poor a liar as Harry, but nowhere near as endearing when he does it.On the other side of the room, Harry, of course, looks livid, eyes wide and mouth parted in shock.Dumbledore, on the other hand, seems the perfect picture of calm; if the old man is surprised or displeased by the news that his most famous adversary will be stepping foot inside Hogwarts as a diplomatic guest of honor, he shows no outward sign of it.

Crouch clears his throat.“Now, unless there are any questions…”

Tom puts his hand up.Crouch nods to him.“Mr. Crouch, sir, you mentioned that the second task will be a team endeavor.What would happen in the event of a death during the first task?Would the remaining partner need to compete solo, or would there be a team of three?Given the historical death rates for the Triwizard Tournament, I thought it would be prudent to ask.”

The rest of the room all turn to Tom with expressions running the gamut from open fear (Malfoy) to gaping incredulity (Harry) to mild amusement (Dumbledore).

Tom smiles cheerfully through the stretching silence.

“The Ministry have taken various precautionary measures to ensure that none of the contestants will at any point be in mortal danger,” Crouch eventually answers stiffly.He rattles off a few more details—the champions are to meet back in this room after breakfast tomorrow morning for a round with the press and an examination of their wands—and a warning about cheating and asking others for help, and soon the little room is disbanding for the night. 

Lupin drags Harry towards Dumbledore immediately, and though Tom dearly wants to stay and listen in, Maxime is already herding him and Fleur towards the door, whispering excitedly about extra classes in combat magic with a tutor she’s planning to have hired for him and Fleur specifically.

8.2 Science

“Well, now I know I should’ve joined the Quidditch team as Seeker instead of Chaser; that so-called impartial judge was _clearly_ biased.Cedric, Potter, Krum, Malfoy…”Zacharias Smith proclaims loudly for the fourth time in a single breakfast sitting.

“You’d have lost out to Cedric if you tried for Seeker on Hufflepuff,” Hermione calls out sharply, her last shred of patience apparently finally deserting her.“So guess you’re not good enough for either Seeking _or_ the Goblet of Fire, Smith.”

“Oooh, Granger’s _feisty_ today,” Pansy Parkinson coos from where she hovers right over Riddle, who is sitting next to Harry.(Harry is still trying to work out how this seating arrangement managed to happen; Riddle had simply appeared at his elbow and sat down, carefully curated smile dazzling, and Harry, despite having had every intention of standing up and stalking away, had instead allowed Riddle to draw him into a conversation on the shortcomings of the _Daily Prophet_ ’s reporting.)It seems that the great Tom Riddle’s allure is enough even to draw the slimiest of Slytherins over to loiter by the Gryffindor table, on occasion.

Hermione turns her nose up at Parkinson and doesn’t deign to respond to the taunt.Harry instinctively looks up at Ron, ready to share a knowing grin, but then recalls that Ron isn’t actually here because he’s determined to be a total prat about Harry’s name coming out of the Goblet of Fire. _Merlin, Harry, you could at least have told me you were planning something so ruddy flashy—getting your name called only once just wasn’t enough?_ he had accused last night, then obstinately refused to believe that Harry had never even put his name in, and finally violently drawn his bed curtains in his face.In the morning, he had stormed off as Harry was pulling on his socks.

Ron’s epic bout of churlishness aside, though, the rest of the school have treated the news of Harry’s new status as champion with an eagerness Harry finds equally unwelcome; students are still continually coming up to him and Riddle throughout breakfast to express their congratulations, seemingly oblivious to the constipated smile Harry thanks them all with (maybe this is how they think he always looks?).At this point, Harry honestly isn’t sure whether he prefers their depressingly positive well-wishes for good luck in a death tournament or Ron’s antagonism.He pokes sullenly at his eggs, annoyed with everything and everyone—including himself, for being annoyed in the first place.To his right, Riddle’s quill scratches a steady, almost comforting rhythm against the paranoid thoughts bouncing around inside his head.

“What is _that_ , Riddle?That isn’t a _muggle_ thing, is it?” Parkinson’s voice cuts through.Harry looks up, distracted.

“It is,” Riddle replies with a smile, then sets his quill down on the thick stack of muggle paper he’s been reading and making notes on for the past twenty minutes.“It’s a report about how muggle technology is irreversibly damaging the climate of the planet by permanently changing weather patterns and raising temperatures around the world.” 

Harry squints over and makes out the heading ‘ _4\. ANALYTICAL APPROACH TO STABILISATION OF ATMOSPHERIC CONCENTRATIONS OF GREENHOUSE GASES’_ standing out large on a page of otherwise dizzyingly tiny computer print.

“Raising temperatures around the world?As in changing the weather?Muggles can do that?” Lavender Brown asks, eyes wide.

“They can do much more than affect the weather,” Riddle replies patiently, slipping on the smile Harry has labeled ‘sneakily patronizing’ in his head.He leans forward on his elbows, his voice taking on the firm yet soothing quality Moony’s does sometimes when he lectures.“Muggle technology is in fact capable of many feats magic hasn’t yet the capacity to achieve.For example, if I had a telephone, I could have a full conversation with someone in South Africa right now, in real time, without having to wait days for owl post, or be limited by national Floo networks.

“The problem is that muggles haven’t only kept to improving methods of communication; they’ve also developed all sorts of ways to wreak havoc on the world.In 1986, for example, there was an explosion in what’s now Ukraine that made a region of about 2,600 kilometers totally uninhabitable and is estimated to be responsible for somewhere between 4,000 and 215,000 deaths.”

Lavender’s eyes widen.“Between 4,000 and 215,000?But that’s ridiculous; how can they be that useless at figuring out how many people died in an explosion?”

Hermione, clearly unable to hold in her desire to join the conversation in spite of her declared mistrust of Riddle, finally looks up from her homework.“The easiest way to think of it would be as if the explosion carried a curse that spread over a large area, but it’s impossible to ascertain who was afflicted by it.Worse, it hits some harder than others, so some die quickly, while for others, the effects might not surface for years.If that were the case, it would be extremely difficult to figure out what the ultimate death toll would be.”

Lavender’s mouth forms a small “o” while Parkinson mutters, “Not a very reliable curse, then, is it?”

Hermione pays them no mind and turns to Riddle, the bright sunlight of the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling illuminating the curiosity her eyes.“You follow muggle scientific developments?”

“Of course.It’s indispensable that we keep abreast of what they get up to; there are so many muggles out there and so few of us that no matter how the Wizarding community responds at this point, their actions will have consequences for us, too.There was Chernobyl, of course, and the atomic bombs used during the Second World War, and concerning global warming and rising sea levels, well, even Dumbledore and Grindelwald together wouldn’t be able to reverse the damage that’s already been done, not with how long the muggles have been at it.”

“Permanently affecting _us_? _Muggles?_ ” Parkinson sneers, but this goes largely ignored.

To Harry’s surprise, Hermione nods eagerly at Riddle.“Have you read Medvedev’s _The Truth About Chernobyl_?”

“Yes, I found his clinical honesty fascinating.” 

Harry tunes out as Hermione and Riddle dive into a conversation about nuclear fission, alternative energy sources and the potential for magical intervention; these are all terms he’s heard before, but they feel at this point like remnants from a past life, utterly irrelevant to and disconnected from his current problems…

 _There is nothing that anyone can do about the Goblet’s decree,_ Dumbledore’s words from last night echo in his head.Harry and Remus had accompanied him back up to his office, where they had then Floo’d in an incensed Sirius, and Harry, miserable, had had to watch the three men he respected most in his life engage in something that wasn’t quite a row, but somehow unspeakably worse by the way both Sirius and Remus had stared balefully, accusingly into Dumbledore’s eyes.

Then, Sirius had done a fair bit of shouting and banging his fists on Dumbledore’s imposing oak desk, and at one point threatened to burn down the Ministry, all of which the headmaster bore stoically (though he had cracked a small smile at the threat of violence).They had all lapsed into a much more serious, businesslike tone after that, the kind usually reserved for discussing Grindelwald and Order Business.Yet despite Harry’s best efforts to plead that he should be allowed to participate in the conversation because _this was his life, for fuck’s sake_ , Remus had put his foot down and insisted that Harry head back to Gryffindor tower, where he was mobbed by an impromptu congratulatory celebration he had no interest in taking part in.

“Shall we, Harry?”

Harry snaps out of these thoughts to find Riddle smiling over at him, chin laid on the back of a pale hand, amusement slanting the edges of his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes.From this close, Harry can see that the deep brown of his irises is dotted with flecks of gold.“What?” he manages.

Riddle stands up.“The round with the press and—” he tilts his head, his eyes glinting with something sharp, “—the wand assessment, of course.”

“Er, yeah—I, er, I’m not finished eating just yet, go ahead.”

A slight wrinkle appears between the other boy’s perfect brows, but to Harry’s surprise, he doesn’t push or try to extend the conversation as he usually would; he simply drops a warm hand briefly onto Harry’s shoulder and squeezes lightly before bidding the rest of the table a good morning.Harry has to actively refrain from reaching up to run his hand along where he can still feel that warmth, tingling, as he watches Riddle’s tall form recede down the aisle between the house tables.

Harry gives himself a shake, then rolls his eyes in exasperation and looks up to find Hermione’s shrewd gaze on him.“What?” he asks defensively, already thinking with a sinking feeling that any attempt at hiding this weird Riddle thing will be useless.

Hermione purses her lips.“What happened to ‘Tom Riddle is a Dark Wizard running dodgy schemes with Draco Malfoy and so we should be distrustful of him’?”Her tone stops short of disapproving, at least.

“I do distrust him!”

Hermione narrows her eyes.“Do you?”

“Yes!” Harry leans across the table so he can whisper at her.“And anyway, I wasn’t the one geeking out with him over muggle science for half an hour, was I?”

“It wasn’t nearly half an hour, and there’s nothing wrong with studying muggle science,” Hermione replies snippily.“If you’d been listening, you’d know that it’s actually extremely important that wizards know about these things!Anyway…” she leans in towards him as well, dropping her own voice to a whisper.“Harry, please tell me you don’t _fancy_ him.He nearly killed you in a duel!And don’t lie to me, I can _tell._ ”

“As if I would!”Harry’s mouth clicks shut in indignation, and he glances quickly to either side of them before casting a Muffling Charm just in case.“And you’re one to talk, are you?I seem to remember you mooning over him not so long ago. _Oh, Riddle, let me tell you how I so_ cleverly _hexed Marietta Edgecombe’s face last year!_ ” he mimics, and is gratified to see color bloom on Hermione’s cheeks.

“That was before I saw him try to scorch a hole through your chest, Harry!”Hermione retorts, then leans back, her expression taking on something concerned now.“Listen, Harry, I know he’s charming, clearly intelligent, and, er, very handsome, but…”

“I don’t fancy him!He’s the one who’s been coming onto me.”

“He has?”Hermione asks, and raises a pointed eyebrow over at the Ravenclaw table where Louisa Macdonald is chatting with Cho.Harry follows her gaze and, okay, fine, Riddle did famously snog the Head Girl in plain view at a party attended by half the school, which makes Harry’s story at least a little unlikely…He’s just not sure how to properly put into words the way Riddle has just…suddenly been everywhere, crowding into his space and demanding every wandering sliver of his attention, so he buries his face in his hands and groans.When it becomes clear that Harry isn’t going to respond, Hermione sighs.“I do suppose he seems a bit…”

“A bit of a slag?” Harry supplies.Hermione makes a face; she tends not to like the word, even when Harry uses it in the ‘equal-opportunity’ way she’s always going on about.“Forget it, Hermione.It’s not…his personality’s absolutely vile.I wouldn’t, with him.”( _Probably_ , he doesn't say.)“Anyway.I should get going to this blasted Tournament press interview thing.They’re meant to be checking over our wands or something.”He stands up and starts to make for the side room, but Hermione follows him.

“I still think you should go talk to Dumbledore about that again, Harry,” she says earnestly, tripping slightly to keep up with Harry’s longer strides.“Surely they can’t just _make_ you participate in the tournament when you don’t want to and didn’t even enter in the first place!”

“Dumbledore basically said they could—and that I’ll probably die of magically induced spontaneous combustion if I refuse to go through with it,” Harry growls grimly as they come up on the door leading to the side room in the Hall.He doesn’t particularly want to field any more questions about this from anyone whose company he wouldn’t normally actively seek out, and even Hermione is testing his patience at this point.“I’ll see you in the library later or something,” he says shortly, and wrenches open the door.

8.3 The Weighing of the Wands

Harry nearly walks straight into Garrick Ollivander’s pale, wrinkled face and wide, silvery eyes. 

“Ah, Mr. Potter, at last…” Ollivander greets in the same crinkled-paper voice Harry recalls from his very first visit to Diagon Alley with Professor McGonagall.

“Harry, my boy!” Ludo Bagman cries from the corner, overfamiliar despite their only having met once at a Slug Club meeting nearly two years back, and rushes over to place a pair of fat-fingered hands on Harry’s upper back and herd him over to the far wall, where the rest of the champions have already gathered.Harry thinks for an absurd moment that they look as if they’ve all been set up to be executed by a muggle firing squad, the way they’re all standing in a neat row with their backs to the wall and their hands at their sides.He gingerly takes his place at the end nearest the front of the room, next to Fleur Delacour.

At the front of the room, Dumbledore and Ollivander are conversing in quiet tones as Karkaroff and Maxime look on.Harry thinks that Ollivander’s eyes dart over to him more than once, but he can’t be sure he isn’t just imagining it.Since last night, he has been questioning every thought that passes through his mind and wondering if he’s being needlessly paranoid: the only possible explanation for Harry’s name coming out of the Goblet of Fire (let alone twice) is that someone else put it in, right?But if so, who?Did they put his name in twice in order to get it to come out twice?But hadn’t Dumbledore said that the Goblet couldn’t be easily tricked?Or did two separate people do it?And, perhaps more importantly, why _?_ As a prank?Or as something more sinister?Is someone out to get him?

“We thank you for waiting,” Dumbledore says then, and Harry finds himself jerked out of his swirling musings for the second time in an hour.“May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament.”

Ollivander has each of the champions approach his little table at the front of the room in turn so that he can examine their wands close up and run his fingers over the grain of the wood: first Fleur Delacour, whose wand contains a strand of hair from her Veela grandmother, then Krum, whose wand was crafted by someone named Gregorovitch.After them, with much more cheer, Ollivander calls Cedric, and following him Malfoy, who both own wands of his creation: Cedric, Harry learns, wields an ash-and-unicorn hair wand that is twelve and a quarter inches long, and Malfoy a hawthorn-and-unicorn hair wand that is ten inches long.Both can apparently be described as “springy,” a quality which Harry has never quite understood the significance of.At the end of each inspection, Ollivander performs a basic charm with the wand before sending its owner back.

Finally, Ollivander looks up again and runs his odd, pearlescent eyes between Harry and Riddle, who are stood at opposite sides of the wall.“Now, Mr. Potter and Mr. Riddle, I should like you to come up together, I think.”

Harry frowns, confused, but steps forward.He and Riddle approach the table together, and Harry can’t help but notice the small “I-know-something-you-don’t” smile playing at the edges of the other boy’s lips when he catches Harry’s eye out of the corner of his own.

They hold out their wands, Harry’s a rich, dark-chocolate color, rugged and grainy, as if proud of its wooden quality; Riddle’s, by contrast, is light and smooth, polished to a high shine in a way that almost puts Harry in mind of ivory.He feels his face heat; he probably should have thought to polish his wand this morning—but also, who the hell polishes their wand regularly?(Maybe Gilderoy Lockhart used to, before he’d hexed his own mind into oblivion with Ron’s old wand.)

“Ah, yes, how I remember…phoenix feather and yew, phoenix feather and holly…” Something unnervingly intent lights in Ollivander’s expression, and he reaches out to take both wands, one in each hand, holding them up to the sunlight streaming in from the window, almost as if to compare them.The room is silent, and Harry cannot help but think how impossibly different these two wands look; at first, he thought that Riddle’s looked much better cared for—proud and distinguished, somehow—but now, seeing them held aloft side by side like this, Harry finds that he much prefers his own: it is unassuming and honest, he thinks, doesn’t give off the impression of putting on airs.

Even accounting for the fact that there are two of them at the same time, Ollivander takes much longer examining Harry and Riddle’s wands than he did with any of the previous ones.He turns them this way and that and taps at them with knobbly, arthritic fingers, muttering inaudibly to himself all the while.

Eventually, he takes Harry’s wand in hand and mutters, “ _Vinum,_ ” which makes a fountain of white wine shoot out the end; the same spell then coaxes a stream of red wine from Riddle’s.And then, at long last, he declares both wands to be in perfect condition and returns them to their owners.

Just as Harry turns to go, Ollivander murmurs, “The wand and the wizard grow together indeed…They have met, your two wands, have they not?”

Harry furrows his eyebrows.What in the world is that supposed to mean?

“Yes, sir, we’ve dueled twice,” Riddle answers in the politest voice Harry has heard him use.“The first time, I believe we triggered the initial phase of a _Priori Incantatem_ when our spells collided.”

“Did they now?” Ollivander’s snow-white eyebrows rise high towards his hairline, his gaze taking on an even sharper focus that is almost hawklike.“Do you think you could reproduce it here?”

“Er, reproduce what?”Harry asks, slightly alarmed.What are they even talking about?The malfunction with the golden light?

“I don’t think so, sir,” Riddle answers, speaking over Harry.“I did try and engineer another clash during our second duel, but I think that the trigger requires a genuine intent to injure on the part of at least one caster.”He lowers his head slightly here, both his voice and expression taking on a credibly sheepish tint.He explains, “The first time we dueled, Harry inadvertently struck me in the face with a Severing Charm, and I reacted with an offensive curse on instinct, which I believe caused the Reverse Spell effect.The second time, when I was only trying to catch his spells in the path of my own, nothing happened; the spells only clashed as normal.” 

“Curious,” Ollivander murmurs, again looking back and forth between Harry and Riddle.“Very, very curious.”

“Is it true, then, Mr. Ollivander?”Riddle asks with wide eyes, the very picture of eager, studious interest.“Do our wands share a core material?I read in _De Virgae Artibus_ that brother wands can trigger _Priori Incantatem_ when turned on each other.”

“You’ve read that, have you?” the wand maker asks, surveying Riddle with mild interest.He looks from Riddle to Harry, and then, for some reason, to Dumbledore, who is standing by the door of the little room.Something unspoken passes between the two men, and then the wand maker turns to meet Harry’s and Riddle’s eyes again.“They do, Mr. Riddle.Your and Mr. Potter’s wands each contain a single feather from the tail of the same phoenix.I crafted them together, side by side, over the course of three months several decades ago.I daresay they were waiting for the two of you, all this time.”

This is news to Harry.He glances at Riddle, who looks inexplicably delighted by this news.“Is there, er, something unusual about that?” he asks.

Ollivander turns that scrutinizing gaze on Harry.“Yes, Mr. Potter, I should say it is incredibly unusual to come across brother wands wielded by two wizards so close in age, under such peculiar circumstances as this tournament…and exponentially more so in this case, as phoenixes are notoriously solitary creatures…yes, I should say that it is most curious indeed…” he seems to sink into a pit of rumination then, chin pressed down into his chest and arms crossed.

“Now!” booms Bagman, making Harry jump about a foot in the air; he is really starting to despise that voice.“Press!Photos! _Interviews!_ I’ll just go fetch the _Prophet_ team, shall I?”

If Harry meets a _Prophet_ reporter again in the afterlife, it will be too soon (though given the death rate for competitors in previous Triwizard Tournaments, this may not really be saying much).He doesn’t bother to suppress his glowering scowl as he and Riddle make their way over to the back of the room where the rest of the students seem to be doing their best to carry on a stilted conversation in the way only four people who barely know each other can when one of them (Delacour) refuses point-blank to discuss Quidditch.

“What took the two of you so long?” Malfoy demands as they approach, some of the old arrogance back in his voice.He certainly looks better this morning than he did last night when his name was called, at any rate.

Riddle shrugs, smiling serenely.“Mr. Ollivander showed a particular interest in our wands, I suppose.”To Harry’s relief, he says nothing about sharing wand cores; he doesn’t particularly want it getting out that he shares something so personal with Tom Riddle.

Bagman returns, and, to Harry’s horror, horrible Rita Skeeter, with her charmed-blond hair and nauseatingly berry-pink robes, saunters in behind him. She is trailed by her only-slightly-less-horrible assistant-cum-camerawoman, Myrtle Warren, who wears her hair in two pigtails up on either side of her head despite probably being at least fifty.Rita Skeeter, who wrote a few dozen articles labeling Harry a loony anti-Ministry dissident last year, is possibly the last person on the planet Harry would have wanted to interview with for this tournament.No doubt she’ll find some awful way to spin the fact that Harry’s name came out of the Goblet twice; if she accused him of practicing illegal Dark Arts, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

All told, though, photos and interviews are not the painful ordeal Harry might have expected; he suspects this may have something to do with Dumbledore’s unfailingly cheerful yet somehow still frightfully menacing smile hovering over Rita Skeeter’s shoulder the whole time as she asks each competitor to say a few words on how they feel about headlining the first Triwizard Tournament in two centuries.

Delacour looks outraged when Skeeter dismisses her with an airy wave before she's even finished speaking; Krum and Malfoy both offer carefully diplomatic lines about being delighted and deeply grateful for the chance to build relations between the Northern Empire and the rest of Wizarding Europe (meticulously crafted, Harry suspects, by the press office of Grindelwald’s totalitarian government); and Cedric, of course, says that he’s honored to have been chosen to take part in such a venerable Wizarding tradition and will work his hardest to do Hogwarts proud.

Then it’s Harry’s turn.“I never wanted to enter this bloody tournament and never even put my name in,” he tells Skeeter, and taking inspiration from Krum, hunches his shoulders and puts on the surliest expression he can manage.Behind her, Myrtle Warren snaps photo after photo, the _click-click-click_ and continual flashes of her camera setting Harry’s teeth on edge; he glares pointedly in her direction several times.

“Oh, but _Harry_ my dear,” Skeeter coos—and dear Merlin, does her voice have to screech like that? "Your name came out of the Goblet of Fire _twice!_ This is totally unprecedented in the whole of Wizarding history!You would forgive me for thinking that you very _much_ wanted to participate.How many times did you have to enter your name in order to confuse the Goblet so badly it spit out your name twice?” 

Harry feels his face heat as his anger suddenly spikes, but before he can stand up, dramatically storm off and slam the door, Tom Riddle steps in smoothly and says, “But Miss Skeeter, that simply isn’t possible, is it?You see, the Goblet of Fire is an artifact whose binding magics date back to Ancient Greece; it can’t be confused by simply adding one’s name in a couple hundred times.If that were the case, I imagine we would have a few dozen champions instead of just the requisite six.”

Rita Skeeter turns fully to Riddle.“Oh, _my_ ,” she croons, raking her eyes up and down his form in a hungry way that makes Harry’s skin crawl.“You must be the Tom Riddle all the other students are so taken with.I’m told that Nicolas Flamel voluntarily came out of retirement at Beauxbâtons just so he could tutor you.You must tell me _all_ about that, my dear.”

Riddle’s usually infallible smile sharpens into a sneer for a split second before broadening into something dazzlingly sunny, and he replies, voice dripping with sugar, “Why of _course_ , Miss Skeeter.”And then, still smiling, he seats himself too closely next to Harry on the interviewees’ bench and launches into a lengthy monologue about the Alchemy curriculum at Beauxbâtons, speaking smoothly over Skeeter whenever she tries to get a question in or redirect him. 

Harry watches, amazed, as Rita Skeeter grows redder in the face every time her attempts to interrupt Riddle are thwarted and Riddle just smiles wider.Harry has only ever daydreamed of achieving this level of subterfuge; every time he found himself on the end of Skeeter’s questioning, he inevitably ended up being the one steamrolled in the ‘conversation’—just as she is now.He would love to learn how to do this, except he rather suspects it’s one of those innate skills that can’t be learned, and he also doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach voluntarily giving a reporter so much of his time and attention.He catches Dumbledore’s eye at one point, and the headmaster winks at him with a knowing smile. 

At length, some time after Riddle starts blithely talking about some American’s recent research into the viability of Troll mucus as a binding agent for hangover antidotes and the various temperature and humidity conditions required for optimal alchemical transmutation of said Troll bogey hangover potion, Skeeter suddenly stands up, nearly purple in the face and hair tumbling out of its tight bun, and announces to a convincingly astonished-looking Riddle that she thinks they’ve got all they’re looking for, thank you, and concludes the interview portion.Harry gapes as Riddle, still smiling beatifically, thanks the reporting team for their time, grabs Harry by the wrist, and drags him off the bench.

The press round concludes with an objectively awkward photography session during which the _Prophet_ ’s actual photography crew keep arguing with Rita Skeeter and Myrtle Warren about how to position the champions.The crew’s lead photographer clearly wants Fleur Delacour and Tom Riddle in the center, but Rita Skeeter keeps pushing Riddle to the back and pulling Malfoy forward, citing something about ‘international parity and representation.’They compromise by taking countless photos, in every different arrangement conceivable, followed by individual headshots, and then even more featuring the champions with their respective heads of school and an overly friendly Bagman.By the time all parties are satisfied, Harry is ready to throw himself off the top of Gryffindor tower, and the lunch hour has already begun.

Bagman steps forward again.“Now, Champions!Remember, the First Task is a test of your courage as wizards—and witch!”He winks at Delacour, who smiles back so thinly and condescendingly down her nose that her head is tilted almost all the way back.Bagman falters slightly and then quickly continues, “The First Task will take place exactly six weeks from now, so I would make sure you are ready to face anything.You never know what the Triwizard Tournament will have in store for you!”

—

The next morning in the common room, Harry picks up a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ to find that the front page features a huge color photo of all six champions standing in a group, Tom Riddle’s smug, handsome face smirking out from the very center of the image while the Harry in the photo does a bad job of pretending he isn’t sneaking glances over at him.It is utterly mortifying.

Harry chucks the entire paper straight in the fireplace and buries his head in his arms, hating how hot his face feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:Tom trolling Rita Skeeter here is probably the closest I will ever come to writing crack.
> 
> French--  
> 1: Oh, but you don’t know how proud I am of the two of you!  
> 2: But what are we waiting for, Madame?  
> 3: He’s a bit too hot headed, don’t you think, Tom?


	10. Chapter 9: The Slug Club: The Champions’ Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry, uh, ‘networks.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep trying to write less verbose and ease back to a sub-7k word count, so spent a fair amount of time cutting…but we’re still sitting at over 8.6k here… I know some people aren’t used to reading so many words in a single sitting (lol I’m the opposite), so if this is an issue for you, I’d recommend clicking ‘download’ in the top right so you can read via an e-reader app like Calibre; it’ll automatically track your place for you if you need to put it down for a bit!
> 
> My eternal thanks, as always, to my friend [Artemis1219](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1219/pseuds/Artemis1219) for her comments and suggestions!

The rest of October passes in such a blur that Harry barely notices it’s gone until he looks up one day to find that it’s Halloween morning.Despite his taking fewer classes on account of being a N.E.W.T. student now, the professors are assigning so much homework it feels as if they’re angling to work him to death before the Triwizard Tournament can even begin—and with the looming shadow of the first task a scant few weeks away, Harry isn’t even sure he would mind that much.It doesn’t help, of course, that Slughorn will be hosting a ‘special-edition’ Slug Club meeting tonight in honor of the Triwizard champions after the Halloween Feast; he succeeded in extracting a promise from Harry to attend, and now Harry also has an evening of senile geezers and simpering sycophants trying to use him to buddy up to either Sirius or Dumbledore to look forward to.Worst of all, though, is definitely that Ron is _still_ being shirty with him about the thing with the Goblet of Fire, no matter how many times Harry insists he had nothing to do with it.Harry doesn’t think he’s ever spent so much time only with Hermione before, and truthfully, while he loves her dearly, the force of her high-strung personality, without Ron’s tempering presence, is beginning to chafe.

And so, his head awhirl with such thoughts of doom and gloom, by the time a giant package heavy enough to require seven exhausted-looking tawny owls working together lands in front of him at breakfast, he has forgotten all about the request they had made of Hermione’s muggle librarian aunt.

“Oh, perfect!” exclaims Hermione, clapping her hands.“I’d been wondering about these!”

“ _These_ are all the muggle newspapers we ordered?” Harry asks, shocked.“I thought you asked your aunt to sort through for only the ones reporting unusual or violent incidents in small villages on that one afternoon…She can’t mean to tell us that on that day the whole of the English countryside was embroiled in suspicious, unexplained incidents.”He pointedly eyes the three bulky packages before him, which have rather rudely displaced his breakfast and are tall enough that he can barely meet Hermione’s eye over them.

Hermione frowns at the bulk of the delivery and reaches out to pluck up the attached letter, her eyes scanning quickly over the message.“She says she wanted to make sure she didn't leave out anything that we would potentially be interested in, so she kept in everything that even her most boring colleagues considered unusual… Don’t look at me like that, Harry—I didn’t want to be too specific about explosions or attacks and end up missing something, especially since we have no idea what the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee came up with to cover this up.The one newspaper we unknowingly miss could be the one that reported on the attack!And then we would have no leads whatsoever!”

Privately, Harry doubts this—five people had _died_ , after all, which he suspects not even the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee could simply sweep under a rug without _something_ making the muggle papers—but he sighs and casts a Reducing Charm so Hermione can easily slip the whole thing into her schoolbag.

“Oh, Harry!What sorts of packages did you get delivered?Special dress robes for the special Slug Club party tonight?” a girl’s voice asks, and Harry looks over to find a fourth-year named Romilda Vane peering over at him in interest from where she’s huddled with her friends farther down the table. 

Hermione rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath that Harry is the _last_ person who would have robes specially ordered for a Slug Club meeting.Harry replies that he wouldn’t put it past Sirius to owl-order him a set of Dumbledore-worthy sparkly dress robes for something like this as a sort of practical joke (he’s already received a note reading simply, _If dear cousin Bella shows her ugly face at this Slug Club meeting, you have my blessing to slip her a Whooping Cough Confection from F &G’s Skiving Snackboxes—without the side that cures it, of course_).Hermione rolls her eyes again, but there is a hint of a smile in her eyes when she stands up and tells him that she’ll see him in Double Defence; she wants to get some library time in before class.

This, unfortunately, leaves Harry in the unideal position of having to awkwardly and single-handedly fend off some truly poorly veiled attempts by a group of fourteen-year-olds to get him to invite one of them as his date to Slug Club tonight.To his continuing astonishment, he has, ever since the drawing of names two weeks ago, become something of a local celebrity among everyone except the Slytherins, and he finds himself quite unsure as to how to act in the face of the admiring glances he sometimes catches out of the corner of his eye—whether to be more flattered or creeped out.

Thanks to the _Daily Prophet’s_ unbending work ethic, Harry is used to unwanted attention, but he’s never had much experience with the positive sort; it leaves him feeling prickly and undeserving, and he feels viscerally that the whispers of _cheater_ which occasionally follow him down the crowded corridors are the ones that have the right of it, regardless of Hermione’s firm declaration that these kinds of thoughts are absolutely ludicrous. _How can you have cheated your way into this tournament when you never even entered_ , she asked him reasonably just last night.But Harry still can’t manage to shake that feeling of wrongness—that somewhere along the way, as usual, he’ll do something silly and somehow find himself Wizarding Britain’s great pariah once again.

None of this is helped by the fact that it quickly got out that he and Cedric are now regularly running Seeker practice with preprofessional sportsman Viktor Krum.A truly daunting number of squealing girls (many of them, horrifyingly, second- and third-years) have taken to camping out in the Quidditch stands during these practices, giggling and squealing to each other as they point towards the action on the field, so much so that Harry is almost starting to regret proposing Quidditch in the first place.

When he finally escapes Romilda Vane’s posse and sidles into Defence through the classroom’s back door three minutes late, Moony takes five points from Gryffindor for his tardiness, and the only seats left open are next to Ron, right by Harry at the very back of the room, and Riddle, all the way at the front, across the aisle from Hermione and Susan Bones.Harry grits his teeth, looking between the two, and, under the unimpressed stare of a teacher who is also his parent, slides quickly in next to Ron, who acknowledges him with a frosty, stilted nod.Harry doesn’t bother to hold back his answering glare, and settles in for an uninspiring lecture on Vampire social hierarchies.

—

“Harry, my boy, there you are!”

All hopes of slipping unnoticed into the small banquet hall Slughorn has commandeered for this Champions’-edition Slug Club meeting die in Harry’s mind as he looks down into his Potions professor’s eager, smiling face. 

“Good evening, Professor,” he greets with hopefully at least some enthusiasm, and adjusts the bowtie of his dress robes awkwardly.(He hopes that whoever decided bowties ought to represent the height of wizarding fashion died a very painful death; they are not _cool_ , no matter what the girls say _Witch Weekly_ claims.)

“We’re only waiting on Miss Delacour now, I believe.”Slughorn reaches up to place a fat-fingered hand on Harry’s shoulder and starts walking him over to the drinks table.A quick glance around the room tells Harry that this is going to be a terribly tedious evening.Slughorn has been assuring them in class all week that the party would be attended by all the most influential witches and wizards, drawn to the occasion by the beacon of the six students across all Wizarding Western Europe deemed most worthy by the Goblet of Fire.Worse, he has guaranteed that the first portion of the evening would be dedicated only to the champions so that they could network unhindered—which, for Harry, translates to a full hour of straight misery.

Harry vaguely recognizes a skinny, middle-aged witch speaking with Cedric by the fireplace as Delia Farrington, an employee in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who Sirius once declared was ‘out to claim his fragile virtue.’In a far corner, Krum has been beset by what look like sports officials of at least four different nationalities, and true to form, he seems to be responding to every question posed him with a monosyllabic answer and a scowl; he catches Harry’s eye briefly, and Harry throws him a look of sympathy.

They arrive at the bar nestled in the back of the room, and Slughorn continues, “I know that, like Mr. Riddle and Mr. Malfoy here, you’re not yet seventeen and so can’t technically drink hard liquor…” Malfoy and Riddle look up from where a smartly dressed witch with half a shaved head of platinum-blond hair is serving them each a drink an alarming shade of green.Riddle beams, all dimples and straight white teeth, and Malfoy sneers. 

Slughorn leans in conspiratorially towards the three boys.“But!I’ve worked closely with our Mixologowitch Aliénor here—I’ve borrowed her straight from _L’Autruche d’Or,_ one of the most _exclusive_ Wizarding club in Paris, you know—to ensure that you all have something interesting to drink.”He winks, then waggles his bushy eyebrows as the ‘Mixologowitch’ hands Harry a glass of that same drink, glowing an ominous potion-like green.

He gives it a tentative sip and is pleasantly surprised to find it absolutely delicious: sweet and fizzy, but with a minty tang that has him immediately raising it back up to his lips to take a more generous swill.Merlin knows he’ll need it if he’s to survive the evening with his sanity intact.

“Now!” cries Slughorn, clapping his hands together, “I have someone to introduce you boys to!”He grabs Harry’s upper arm in one surprisingly strong hand and Malfoy’s in his other, and shepherds all three boys past a cloud of live bats into a secluded nook.

“Barty!Barty Crouch, here they are!”

Harry startles and stops dead, because behind the young man with straw-colored hair Slughorn just called Barty are Bellatrix Lestrange and—

“ _Snape!_ ” Harry growls, just as Malfoy says, “Professor—and Aunt Bella.”

“Ah, and Severus and Bella, too!Some of my very best indeed!”Slughorn could not look any more like a proud, happy parent if he tried.

Snape looks exactly the same as when Harry last saw him at the end of second year, all long, oily hair hanging in congealed strands about his face, crooked nose protruding, the corners of his mouth pulled down into that same perpetual frown.He is even, as ever, dressed in the same set of plain black work robes Harry recalls seeing daily in their dungeon classroom.Next to him, Bellatrix Lestrange could not make a more marked contrast: wild, unruly hair tumbling down around her fine-boned face in luscious, dark curls and lacy dress robes that probably come from one of those expensive French or Italian couturiers Sirius says requires bookings years in advance.As her hooded eyes make their way over to the three boys, her lips, lacquered a shiny black, curl up in a way that has the hair on the back of Harry’s neck standing straight up.

The evening no longer looks tedious, Harry mentally revises; it will clearly be a total nightmare.He wonders if this is how Sirius always used to feel at family functions when he was Harry’s age, then takes a generous sip of his green drink.

“Draco… _Potter,_ ” Snape says—and fucking Merlin, even his nasally voice and that particular expression of distaste, which he seems to reserve specifically for Harry, are exactly the same as Harry remembers. 

But what is he _doing_ here?Shouldn’t he be busy at Durmstrang teaching children how to cast dark curses or something?

“Why, if isn’t my two _favorite_ boys, little nephew Draco and little adopted baby cousin Harry,” Bellatrix coos, voice dripping like molasses, and in a flash of movement Harry’s eyes barely manage to track, she has stepped up between him and Malfoy and snaked a shapely arm around each of their shoulders so that they’re both hunched awkwardly down towards her.Her long nails scrape threateningly against the fabric of Harry’s robes.Harry, cheeks burning, is treated to an unhindered eyeful of the way her soft, ample breasts bulge out of her low, lacy neckline, rising and falling round and pale with each of her breaths.He only remembers to look up when Slughorn’s voice booms through, as if jolting him awake:

“Ah, yes, Severus, of course you would also know Harry already; you taught him before Karkaroff poached you for his own school and Albus came along to drag me out of my blissful retirement, didn’t you?And of course Harry and Draco already know Bella, being family and all.Well, then, that makes my job quite simple, I think!”He gathers them all around him like unwilling students working a group project; only Riddle’s smile manages to stay flawlessly polite throughout, Harry notices. 

“Now, we all know Draco here, I believe.Barty, this is Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter — you remember them from good old Slug Club back in the day, no?Adopted by Sirius Black now and heir to that family as well, of course.”Bellatrix’s nails dig into Harry’s collarbone painfully at this reminder, and it takes all his willpower neither to make a sound nor jerk and spill his drink all over himself.

“And finally, this is one of our champions from Beauxbâtons, Tom Riddle.He’s a personal student of Nicolas Flamel, and is even finding time between running a trimmed-down fencing club for the Beauxbâtons students”— _What in Merlin’s pants,_ Harry thinks, _a fencing_ _club?_ —“and attending Harry’s dueling club to sit in on some of our Hogwarts classes!A shame you couldn’t fit Potions into your schedule, my boy, I’m sure I would have loved to have you.”

“Riddle?” asks Bellatrix, her hooded eyes running consideringly up and down the way Riddle’s cherry-black dress robes accentuate the long, slim line of his figure—and really, Harry thinks, what is it with middle-aged witches and unabashedly ogling this boy?She immediately releases Harry and Malfoy so she can step up to regard him closely with that unnerving, focused stare of hers.“A half-blood, are you?”

Absurdly, Harry feels what he hopes to Merlin isn’t indignation on Riddle’s behalf at the implicit slight.But Riddle only replies, not a crack in his porcelain smile, “That’s correct, Mrs. Lestrange.It’s an honor for me to be able to participate in this venerable Wizarding tradition.”

“My, how polite you are.”Bellatrix’s black-painted lips curve up into a smile that registers as distinctly predatory; Harry catches both himself and Malfoy taking half a step back.Her gaze lingers a moment longer, intense, before she looks back to Slughorn, posture and demeanor shifting seamlessly into something relaxed.“I believe you meant to introduce them to Barty here, Horace?”

“Ah, but of course!”Slughorn pulls forward the man with the straw-colored hair, who Harry supposes is good-looking enough but otherwise seems rather unremarkable—forgettable, even—when juxtaposed with such characters as Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus Snape; Harry nearly forgot he was there. 

It must be DMLE-Crouch’s son, he supposes, and is proven right when Slughorn goes on with a wink, “One of my very best students, twelve O.W.L.s and nine N.E.W.T.s, can you imagine!Barty Crouch is the son of the head of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry, of course, but what I think will be more interesting to you champions…”—an eyebrow waggle—“is that he works as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries.He was, in fact, part of the team that altered the Goblet of Fire to choose two champions per school instead of just one!”

All three boys’ heads perk up in interest. 

“Ah,” says Slughorn, delighted.“Yes, I thought you might want to learn more about his work.But Miss Delacour has just come in—I must be off to greet her and make her introductions before the rest of the students start arriving; I expect you all to have a wonderful chat, and enjoy the drink!”And with another wink and a pat on Malfoy and Riddle’s shoulders, he’s off, pale lilac robes swishing after him.

Harry looks from Malfoy to Snape, then to Bellatrix, and finally to Riddle, who is watching Crouch with something far too calculating in his gaze.With perhaps the possible exception of Crouch (though he isn’t holding his breath, judging by the company the man keeps), Harry genuinely cannot think of a group of people he would ever be less inclined to ‘have a wonderful chat’ with.Bellatrix is definitely imagining at least five different creative ways of dismembering him right now if her dreamy look of deranged enjoyment is anything to go by, and Snape—well, impossible to tell what he could be thinking, really, but it’s definitely nothing good.Maybe if Rita Skeeter and Dolores Umbridge were also here, then they could really make it into a party.

“Right, er, Sirius asked me to say that he sends his very worst regards,” he says to Bellatrix before he can think better of it. “Also, I, er, need to refill my drink.”(It is very clearly closer to full than empty.)“So.Bye.”

He makes a break for it before ‘Aunt Bella’ can make any thinly veiled threats or other awful remarks about how undeserving he is of the hallowed Black family name.

—

Some time later, Harry manages to extricate himself from the grips of an Austrian researcher of protective charms and wards who is just a little bit _too_ interested in his lightning-bolt scar, and, violently green drink refilled, looks around the room for a friendly face.Hermione and Ginny have finally arrived along with the rest of the Slug Club regulars, but both were drawn into conversation with a _Prophet_ reporter before Harry could get to them, and Cedric and Krum are now talking to Ludo Bagman. 

So Harry beats a hasty retreat.He wanders to the edge of the too-warm room and out onto the balcony, where the cool night air and the faint silver light of the moon and stars provide a soothing contrast.But instead of a quiet corner to relax in, he finds Tom Riddle and one of his Beauxbâtons classmates with their heads huddled close together at the edge of the balcony, each dangling what appears to be a cigarette in their fingers and apparently deep in hushed conversation.Harry feels a sharp tug of something in his chest at the sight, even as his nose wrinkles at the smell of smoke.

He turns immediately on his heel to head back inside, but he’s too slow, because—

“Party not to your liking, Harry?” calls Riddle’s smooth voice, and Harry grudgingly looks back around at them.He thinks he recognizes the girl as one of the Beauxbâtons classmates who sometimes accompany Riddle to DA meetings, the one with surprisingly good English.She has somehow, in the moment Harry was turned around, moved at least two paces away from Riddle, who has taken a step towards Harry.

“Riddle,” he greets reluctantly.“And, er…” he trails off, looking at the girl.He thinks her name might be Lulu or Millie or something like it, but he’s not sure.

“Harry, this is my friend Mélusine Clair,” Riddle supplies smoothly.“Mélu, Harry Potter, from their dueling club.”

It is abundantly clear that Riddle is saying this all just for Harry’s benefit; she must know who he is by now.The girl nods at Harry in greeting, glances quickly at Riddle, and rolls her eyes.Then she lifts the heel of her shoe up to her knee to put out her half-smoked cigarette against it. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Harry Potter,” she says, “but I’m afraid I was just leaving.I hope to get to know you another time.”And she’s sweeping past him, wispy brown hair carrying a strong whiff of smoke into Harry’s space.

“…Did she just leave because of me?” Harry asks dumbly.Did he offend her by not knowing her name?

“Don’t mind her.She was simply being considerate,” Riddle answers, a cryptic smile twisting the corners of his lips.He leans back against the stone balustrade of the balcony in a way that just so happens to draw Harry’s eye to the long lines of his trousered legs under his silky black dress robes, and then takes a slow drag of his cigarette. 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Harry says a little stiffly, trying to fill in the sudden silence.

Riddle shrugs.“I do sometimes.Now you know.”

“You know it gives you cancer, right?”

“It gives _muggles_ cancer,” Riddle corrects.“And maybe squibs, if they don’t have enough magic for their bodies to block or heal the damage on their own.”

Harry did not know that.“Well, it smells foul, so I’d appreciate it if you could go do it somewhere else.”

Riddle chuckles, then steps right up to Harry and exhales a stream of acrid cigarette smoke straight into his face, sending him into a fit of hacking coughs.“What the _fuck_ , Riddle!” he gasps after catching his breath.He swipes at his mouth, wishing he could wipe away the taste lingering on his tongue.

“I was here first, Harry.Quite rude of you to swan up to me and tell me to piss off, don’t you think?”Harry feels his eye twitch, and he knows Riddle notices because his lips quirk, as if he’s trying to bite back a smile.“But all right, if you insist.”And then, pinching what’s left of the little roll in between thumb and forefinger, Riddle holds it up right between their noses. 

It bursts into flame in a sudden flare of heat and light. 

Harry yelps, leaping backward towards the balustrade as Riddle lets the burning stub drop to the floor, where it promptly collapses into a small pile of smoking ash.

“What is it with you and fire?You could have burned our faces off!”

“There’s no need to be so melodramatic, Harry; it’s just a parlor trick.Aren’t Gryffindors supposed to be brave and unyielding?”

“That was so completely unnecessary!Warn a person, would you?”Harry’s face feels hot with embarrassment.“H-how did you do that without your wand, anyway?”

Riddle smiles, the expression insufferably knowing, and steps closer to join Harry at the balcony, leaning a hip against the railing so that he’s directly facing him.He still reeks of smoke, but this close, Harry imagines he can catch the spicy undertones of some sort of cologne mixed in when a slight breeze brushes by. 

“It’s just a little wandless magic.Surely you must have done some as a child.”

“Well, yeah, but it was always accidental, I think, like all kids do.”

Riddle raises an aristocratic brow.“Always?Really?You never made things happen using magic because you wanted to?”

“Well, I mean I never actually _intended_ to do anything specific.Usually, I just got scared or angry, and, I dunno, random stuff would happen that would make it better.”Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia usually made sure he got in trouble for it afterwards, though.

“Such as?”

Harry glances askance at Riddle, who really is being awfully nosy.But he finds himself answering anyway: “I turned my teacher’s wig blue one time in primary school… and then, another time, I ended up on the roof of my aunt and uncle’s house,” he muses thoughtfully.He leaves out the detail that he had been running from Dudley’s gang of bullies at the time.

“You Apparated as a child?”

“Sort of?I mean, not intentionally.I think I just wanted to get away from the other kids in the moment, and it just sort of… happened.”

Riddle hums, then says, “You grew up with muggles.”It isn’t a question.

Harry squints at him, suspicious.“How do you know that?”

Riddle shrugs, turning his head to look out over the balcony railing towards the faint orange glow in the distance that is Hogsmeade, which gives Harry a breathtaking view of the way the soft silver light of the moon illuminates the sharp, chiseled cut of his cheekbone and jawline.His long fingers twitch, as if he’s momentarily forgotten he’s no longer holding a cigarette. 

“Your adoption case made the papers, even in France.I remember reading about it: heir to Black fortune suddenly reappears after nearly a decade; adopts Boy Who Lived.”He sounds like he’s reciting a news article subheading.

Harry doesn’t remember the media coverage mentioning that he’d previously lived with muggles.Sirius had asked Dumbledore to lean on the papers to keep that detail out because they didn’t want the horrors of Harry’s time with the Dursleys plastered all over the news, but it must have trickled through somehow, he supposes.“We were _twelve_ when that all was going on.You remember articles that far back?” he asks.

Riddle glances at him, expression one of mild surprise.“Shouldn’t I?It was considered pretty sensational news at the time.”

“…Never mind.”Harry has suspected for a while now that Riddle has some sort of magically enhanced version of a photographic memory or something (he can be more of a walking textbook than even Hermione sometimes), but he knows that if he asks, it will just lead to general boasting and peacocking.Which would be painful for Harry. 

He cranes his head around to peer through the balcony doorway at the state of the party inside, but it doesn’t seem as if there are any fewer people than when he left.

“Can’t decide whether you’d rather stay out here with me or go back inside and brave the vultures?” Riddle teases.

Harry grimaces.“Slug Club parties are the worst thing—Slughorn just thinks of us as little trophies to parade in front of his _connections._ Usually, I can find some sort of excuse to get out of them.”

“And that’s a bad thing, being introduced to his connections?”

“Well, obviously.Not all of us appreciate being shown off the way you clearly do; some of us actually prefer being treated like actual people.”

“Is that how you see your Potions professor?” Riddle sounds sincerely curious.

“Well, how else am I supposed to see him, with the way he carries on?” Harry asks, voice rising; he’s really getting irritated at the way Riddle keeps replying to him with questions.

Riddle’s head tilts to one side just a bit, as if weighing his words carefully.“He’s an interesting one, Horace Slughorn.I’d been told about him, of course, but to experience it in person was certainly something else.No matter what ulterior motives he may have, he _is_ still looking out for his students; you can’t deny the advantages being part of that web of connections grants you.”

Harry stares.“Advantages?Oh, right, what am I thinking.Of course _you_ would enjoy networking with geezers in politics…” he pauses, remembering Slughorn’s bizarre comment from earlier.“By the way, _fencing_ club?”

One of Riddle’s perfectly groomed eyebrows lifts ever so slightly, almost as if it can’t be bothered.“What about it?”

“You run a fencing club?People still actually do that?”

“There’s been a fencing club at Beauxbâtons for as long as there’s been a dueling club.It’s quite common among magic folk on the Continent.Good for dueling reflexes, general physical conditioning, and the like.”

“Why fencing though?There’s Quidditch for that.”

Riddle wrinkles his nose.“Quidditch is a barbaric sport.No finesse at all.”

“Barbaric?If anything, that’s _fencing._ Who runs around poking holes in each other with swords in this day and age?”

Riddle makes a strange, stifled noise, and Harry looks over to realize that he has just badly suppressed a laugh—he has the back of one hand pressed to his lips, but Harry can see the way his mouth curves into a smile behind his fingers and the way his eyes are screwed shut in silent mirth anyway.His breath catches in his throat at the sight.

The moment passes, and Riddle has schooled his face back into a more familiar smirk.Harry finds he misses that unguarded expression. 

“I suppose some of us just naturally have a sense of class, Harry—fencing, mingling in high society, understanding the importance of making useful connections…” he drawls, though Harry is pretty sure, by the other boy’s sardonic and knowing smile, that he’s being facetious.

Riddle edges closer, then, the tips of his fingers drawing perilously near where Harry’s hand is resting on the handrail.It’s ridiculous and obviously impossible, but Harry almost imagines that he can feel the heat emanating from even those small points on his body, like a tease.He swallows, craning his neck up a bit to maintain eye contact.Riddle is standing _so close_ —Harry can make out the fine weave of his thick, silky dress robes; hear the soft rustle of the smooth fabric when the wind disturbs its folds; smell the way that spicy-cologne scent, twisting through the faded tang of smoke, wafts all around them. 

“I found it surprising, Harry, that you didn’t stay to speak with Barty Crouch,” Riddle murmurs lowly, his mouth too close, his breath too warm.His eyes are pure black, his lashes thick and dark; they would feel soft under the pads of Harry’s fingers, probably. He curls his fingers into loose fists at his sides, just in case he does something stupid, like reach out to touch.“Aren’t you curious as to what he said about the Goblet of Fire?”

It takes a second for any meaning to filter through the words.“Not unless he talked about my name coming out twice when I never even entered,” Harry answers, proud when his voice comes out steady.

Riddle’s lips curve up into that knowing smile.He leans in even closer, so that he’s gazing directly down into Harry’s eyes.If either one of them shifts a bit, Harry thinks, their noses will brush.“As it so happens, I asked him about it.” 

“Did you?”Why is it taking so much effort not to sound breathless?Harry swallows down the ridiculous feeling, and in a firmer voice: “So what did he say?”

That smile broadens to reveal of flash of white teeth.“Why should I tell you?You could simply have stayed and asked him yourself.”

It takes a second.But then Harry’s brain catches up, and he thinks, _Prick._

“You literally just asked me if I wanted to know what he said.”

“Did I?I suppose I did.”Riddle sounds far too pleased with himself.

With a supreme effort of will, Harry takes a full step back.He instantly feels more grounded, even as the air chills around him—the loss of Riddle’s body heat, he realizes.He gives himself a shake, then says perfectly evenly, “So you could just not be a dick about it and tell me what he said.”

A flicker of annoyance flashes through Riddle’s eyes, his mouth tensing into a thin line for just a fraction of a moment, and Harry feels a spark of triumph light in his chest. _I can irritate you just as much as you irritate me_ , he thinks.

Riddle breathes a dramatic sigh, slides his hands into his pockets, and half-turns away from Harry to lean back against the balustrade, his tone taking on an air of rehearsed boredom.“He said that the Department of Mysteries team only worked on extending the spells in the Goblet of Fire to recognize a maximum of two names for each school, so it doesn’t explain why your name came out a second time, even assuming that it was entered in more than once.”

“…Oh, that’s all?”Harry didn’t really expect much, given that even Dumbledore hasn’t been able to come up with an explanation yet, honestly, but he’d still hoped for even a _little_ more information…

“A bit disappointing, really, considering.”Riddle comments, then glances over at Harry out of the corner of his eye.“He was otherwise quite an interesting man.As were your former professor and… adoptive aunt, is it?”

Harry snorts.“She’s Sirius’s cousin, which makes her technically my…” he trails off, realizing he doesn’t actually know what the ‘correct’ answer to this is.Second aunt or something like that?

“First cousin, once removed,” Riddle supplies.

“…Yeah, whatever.So did you end up having a ‘wonderful chat’ with Snape and Bellatrix like Slughorn wanted?”He doesn’t bother to hide the scorn in his voice.

“You _really_ don’t like them, do you?” Riddle’s tone is teasing again, his eyes glinting.Harry isn’t sure whether he loves it or hates it.

“Oh, could you tell?”

“Yes, but only just barely, given how _well_ you hide it.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, and Riddle continues, smile sunny, “Why don’t you tell me, Harry, about all the reasons you hate Severus Snape and Bella Lestrange?”

“Merlin, Riddle, did you just say _Bella_?Did she ask you to call her that?”

Riddle watches Harry, amusement lifting his lips.“Yes, she was very nice.I think she liked me.”

Harry’s mouth drops open.‘Nice’ is not a word he has ever dreamt of associating with Bellatrix.But then again, of course she would look at Tom Riddle and decide she _likes_ him.Maybe they deserve each other. 

“I assume that means she hasn’t regaled you with the tales of her sordid past yet?”

“Sordid past?I’m aware she’s an internationally renowned duelist and comes from one of the oldest and most established families in Wizarding Britain.And that she’s technically your adoptive aunt, of course.”He looks curious, arms crossed loosely over his chest and head tilted a touch to the side.

“Yeah, well, she almost got sent to Azkaban for attacking muggles for sport back in the day, but the evening before her trial, the prosecutor leading her case suffered a massive, er, ‘unexplained accident’”—Harry hooks his fingers in air quotes around the word—“and then the two witnesses retracted their statements, all the other evidence _mysteriously_ all got misplaced or lost, and the case against her fell apart.So here she stands among us now, strutting around Europe participating in international dueling competitions as an excuse to permanently maim people.She would’ve joined Grindelwald in a heartbeat if he weren’t so paranoid about having British wizards among his ranks.So you probably shouldn’t call her ‘nice.’” 

Riddle hums, looking not at all disturbed and far too thoughtful.“She probably will make an excellent tutor, then.”

“I’m sorry, w _hat?_ ”

“You haven’t heard?Maxime hired her to tutor me and Fleur in combat magic for the duration of the tournament.We were meant to start Monday, but now that she’s met us, she wants to start tomorrow instead.”

“She’ll be your _what?_ ”Harry knows his jaw is hanging open again, but he can’t seem to find the will to close it.

Riddle glances over at Harry, lips quirking up into a slow smirk.“Jealous, Harry?I will say that you weren’t very subtle about your staring earlier.”

Harry’s face burns up like a piece of coal; he doesn’t want to imagine how red he must look.“Oh my god, take that back—I was just…she’s practically _three times our age!_ That’s totally disgusting.”

“Really?Don't worry, I won’t judge your taste in women, Harry.I can’t necessarily fault you—in your defense, she does look quite well for her age.” 

Harry tries very valiantly not to gag (and mostly succeeds).

“She massacred muggles for sport!” he cries, outraged.And, he would not at all be surprised to learn that she still does it, just has her husband help her keep it from getting out to the authorities.

“You just said she was never convicted.”

“That’s totally beside the point!She—” Harry stops short, something only just occurring to him.“Wait, doesn’t having a tutor like this count as cheating in the tournament?”

“This is officially just a supplement to our general combat curriculum; the tournament’s rules simply say we’re not allowed help specifically preparing for the individual tasks.And even then, none of this is part of the Goblet’s original decree, I think.In any case, Karkaroff’s doing the same thing for Durmstrang; it’s why Severus Snape is here—he said he’ll be providing extra tutoring for Krum and Malfoy.”

Harry’s eyes widen.“Snape _wha—_ ”

“Harry,” Riddle interrupts, stepping towards him with a hand extended, an expression somewhere between exasperation and condescending mock-concern, “if you say _‘what’_ like that with your mouth flapping like a fish’s one more time, I’m afraid I’ll need to bring you to the hospital wing to check for brain damage.It’s probably from all that time you spend leaping off broomsticks.”

Harry bats Riddle’s hand away, his mind racing; he is only peripherally aware of the other boy’s scowl of irritation. 

“I’ve got to go,” he mutters quickly, thinking through the implications of it all. 

Bellatrix and Snape on Hogwarts grounds for the rest of the tournament’s duration.Snape having been hired at the same time as Quirrell and fleeing away to teach at Durmstrang only a year after Quirrell was exposed.Grindelwald coming to observe the tasks himself. 

Harry barely manages to maintain a sedate pace as he hurries back into the castle.

—

Hermione doesn’t understand what Harry’s deal is with Tom Riddle, and she _hates_ not understanding things.She spied Harry out on the balcony with Riddle earlier when she was walking past, and they are _both still out there,_ even though it’s ages later.She has managed, in the meantime, to shake off a persistent _Prophet_ reporter, successfully dodge Cormac McLaggen’s advances twice, and have a thoroughly exhausting but incredibly rewarding conversation with a creatures’ rights activist from New York (who even asked her to write a four-foot article on the history of Elfish rights in Wizarding Britain for an American creatures’ rights journal!). 

Hermione has no idea how long it’s been, but she is starting to wonder if she should vacate her hard-earned seat in this quiet and peaceful corner to go check on Harry.

The phenomenon that is Tom Riddle has swept through the castle in much the same manner as a bout of Fiendfyre might destroy a forest during a drought.After that preliminary weekend where he ostentatiously snogged the Head Girl in the Gryffindor common room, gossip quickly spread that there had followed an awkward conversation sorting out an unfortunate misunderstanding: Riddle was apparently seen politely telling Louisa in a secluded corner of the courtyard later that week that he was not interested in anything long term, was very sorry if he had given her the wrong idea, and hoped that they could remain friends.According to the pair of fifth-year Slytherins who allegedly witnessed the interaction and its aftermath, Louisa had cried after Riddle left, even though he had been the perfect gentleman.

In the intervening three weeks, he has been seen laughing merrily and being _very_ tactile with a number of different girls and boys—from all four Hogwarts houses as well as Durmstrang, though it’s anybody’s guess whether he actually did shag all of them.Hermione can’t quite explain it, but there’s a niggling feeling at the back of her mind that somehow, this, like everything else about him, is all for show, and that Harry, despite his best attempts to convince everyone else (and himself) otherwise, _is falling right for it._

Of course, anyone who’s spent even a modicum of time observing Harry interact with Cedric Diggory would know that Harry also fancies boys (though she is fairly certain, unfortunately for Harry, that Cedric only fancies girls).How much longer he can go on without noticing his crush on Cedric himself is technically still the subject of a bet between her and Ron—that is, if they ever speak again…

The point is, just a few weeks ago, Harry would have glowered at and then ignored Riddle completely, whereas today at lunch, he simply glanced at him when he arrived wearing that perfectly crafted smile, rolled his eyes, and dragged his schoolbag out of the way so Riddle could sit.And then he had proceeded to _banter_ with the other boy, pouting when Riddle teased him and then teasing right back, even if he would adamantly deny it later and call it ‘arguing.’And now they’ve been out talking together in the cold on that balcony for god knows how long.Or, she hopes they’re only talking, at any rate.

_Dumbledore seems to like him, so just getting to know him a little shouldn’t hurt.Especially if it’s just so we can be prepared if he tries anything dodgy,_ Harry had said to her last week.And while that might theoretically have had the potential to be true, and Harry might even have convinced himself to believe it at the time he said it, Hermione isn’t an idiot.She sees the way Harry flushes and stutters whenever Riddle lavishes his attention (a highly sought-after commodity at Hogwarts these days) on him.This is to say nothing of the infamous _Prophet_ photograph of all the champions, which had Harry in an agonized panic for almost a whole morning, until it became clear from the gossip mills that the school simply assumed that every single boy except Riddle was staring unabashedly at Fleur Delacour (who was, rather serendipitously for Harry, stood right next to her schoolmate).

“Hey, Hermione.”

Hermione freezes, jolted out of her musings.Among the (many) things she regrets about this whole ridiculous _thing_ still going on between her and Ron, perhaps first and foremost is that she got desperate enough to respond to Cormac McLaggen’s awful come-ons.Yes, he may look all right from afar and come from a respected family, but Hermione has never truly cared about those things, and his deficiencies far outweigh all that anyway. 

And so it unfolds that the third time he approaches her, Hermione cringes to realize she has no readily available escape route.She is assaulted with the stench of prawn cocktail on his breath when he leans in, and, with no other choice, surreptitiously casts an olfaction-blocking charm on herself.

“Hello, Cormac,” she says as neutrally as possible, edging backward in her chair.

“I’ve been looking for you all evening,” he says, and leans in towards her.She leans away.God, she hates people who loom like that.“How’ve you been?”

“Oh, just wonderful—in fact, I was only taking a short break, and I see Ginny over there—” she makes to twist around him and get up, but Cormac just slides in front of her like a wall, and she finds that between the table and the boy, she’s effectively trapped now.

“Slow down, I only just got here,” he says, and tosses his blond curls back like he thinks it’s attractive.

Hermione looks helplessly around the room, but no one seems to be looking in their direction except one pair of ancient and wrinkly wizards dressed in matching hot pink robes and hats adorned with pixie wings, who smile in her direction as if finding her situation adorable.

“R-right,” she says, attempting to scoot her chair away, only to find that she’s already backed against the wall.“Er, how has your evening been?”Her eyes dart around the room again, trying to seek out someone, _anyone—_

“I thought you’d never ask!Well, as you know, with both my parents in the Ministry and Aunt Angelica drumming up support for me in the Department of Magical Sports and Ga—”

“‘Ello!Excuse me!”

Hermione looks up and gapes. 

Fleur Delacour, Beauxbâtons champion, is stepping imperiously past Cormac McLaggen and right into Hermione’s space.And then, tossing her oddly floaty hair behind her with a pointed flip of her wrist, she nudges him out of the way with a pop of her hip.He stumbles a little, staring wide-eyed at her. 

“I need ‘elp weess my dress robes, please,” she says loudly, and, Hermione, flabbergasted, allows herself to be pulled up by the wrist and away, through the crowd, and over to the other side of the room, where Delacour promptly lets go and places her hands on her hips.“Zeez ‘Ogwarts guys, honestly…zey are insupportable!No class at all.I ‘ope I was not eempolite just now, but you did not look as eef you were enjoying yourself.”

“No, not at all, thank you!” Hermione rushes to say, “I appreciated it very much.”She looks around, but it doesn’t look as if they were followed.

“You are ‘Arry Pottair’s friend, are you not?”

“I—yes, I am,” she confirms, surprised at being addressed again; she simply assumed the conversation would be over after she said her thanks.She has never particularly gotten along with other girls, especially ones like Fleur Delacour—namely, beautiful and boy-magnet-y.Hermione has always prided herself on being bookish, even if it means others call her a bossy know-it-all; ever since Hogwarts, she’s always had Harry and Ron, and she simply thought she didn’t need validation from those ‘girly girls’ who spend all their time thinking about dating and how to look pretty. 

But she also knows equally that this attitude is probably, more than anything, a manifestation of seventeen years’ worth of internalized misogyny, wherein girls are constantly pushed to compare themselves against other girls and find both parties wanting—all against some ridiculous and unattainable standard society (both wizarding and muggle) dictates.Theoretically, she understands all this—that she really should just try to meet all Lavender- and Parvati-types where they are and be friends.But Hermione can’t help it if she would much rather spend an evening with the books from the Restricted Section of the library or fighting injustice with Harry and Ron than discuss boys or the Weird Sisters’ most recent sartorial choices, can she?

“My name is Fleur,” Delacour says, rather unnecessarily, when Hermione takes too long to respond.

“Ah, it’s lovely to meet you, Fleur,” Hermione sputters stiffly, “I’m Hermione Granger,” and is completely taken aback when Fleur places one businesslike hand on Hermione’s shoulder, leans in, and smacks her lips loudly once against each of her cheeks.

“Eet eez ze French way,” Fleur says by way of explanation when Hermione just stares back in shock.“I am sorry, ‘ood you repeat your name, please?”

Hermione pronounces her name four separate times for Fleur before finally giving up and just spelling it out letter by letter, at which point Fleur exclaims, “ _Oh, mais_ ‘Airm-yunn _, bien sûr!_ We pronounce it deeferently een French, you see, so I could not understand you at fairst.Eet eez a very propair name for a weetch, Airm-yunn!”

“I’m muggleborn, actually,” Hermione corrects, devastated to learn that the way muggles have butchered the pronunciation of her name her entire life should actually be the correct way to pronounce it in French (albeit in a French accent—she’s more used to ‘Her-mee-own’).

“Zenn your parents must be congratulated on zayr good taste,” Fleur replies, smiling widely.Hermione would almost think she was being made fun of, but she can’t detect any traces of disingenuousness in the other girl’s face.“I was wanting to talk to you, een fact.”

“Oh?”

“Eet eez about ‘Arry Pottair…and Tom Riddle.”

Hermione stills. 

“Eet eez just…Tom ‘az lost no time een attaching heemself to your friend.”

Hermione processes this, watching Fleur carefully; her face is completely serious, her blue eyes wide and sincere.Even that odd breeze that usually follows her hair around seems to be settled.

“I think it’s safe to say that Riddle has been attaching himself to a lot of people, and that none of those people are complaining,” Hermione says slowly, selecting her words with care.“Is there something in particular you’re trying to tell me?”

“I am saying, ‘Airm-yunn, zat you would do well to—how do you say it?—watch over ‘Arry Pottair attenteevly?”

“I always do.”What kind of friend does she think Hermione is?

Fleur smiles, but the expression is tight at the corners.“Of course.I deed not mean offense by eet.”Her eyes sweep around the room over Hermione’s shoulder.“But Tom eez… well.‘Ee eez—”

But Hermione doesn’t get to learn what, because Harry chooses that moment to come up behind Fleur, accidentally jostling her, and grab Hermione roughly by the shoulder to drag her away. 

“Harry, what—”

“Yeah, sorry, but this is urgent,” he says roughly, then, over his shoulder, calls, “Erm, I really sorry, Delacour, but I need to talk to Hermione!”

“Harry, I can’t believe you—how can you have been so rude!”

But he doesn’t reply and just leads them straight out of the party room and into the corridor, Hermione tripping a little in her dress robes.He takes them up two sets of stairs, then finds an empty classroom on the third floor, locks the door, and casts a Muffling Charm around them.

“Okay, _now_ will you explain?Fleur was trying to tell me something about—”

“No, listen, Hermione— _Snape_ is here, and he’ll be staying at Hogwarts until the end of the tournament.”

“Snape?”Hermione frowns, prior train of thought derailed.“Why?He should be teaching at Durmstrang…” her eyes widen.“ _Unless—_ ”

“Exactly.”And Harry recounts what he’s learned over the course of the night: about Snape’s new role here, about Bellatrix Lestrange also being at Hogwarts to tutor the French students, that one of the people responsible for charming the Goblet of Fire to behave differently for this year’s tournament is apparently on good terms with both Snape and Bellatrix. 

“So Snape is _clearly_ here to spy for Grindelwald—it’s like they’re not even pretending at this point!And this isn’t even mentioning the fact that Bellatrix will probably throw herself at Grindelwald’s feet and beg to join his cause if she meets him when he’s here for the tournament,” he finishes.“I’m going to Dumbledore so he can kick them out.”

“Harry, no, wait!” Hermione grabs his hand, pulling him back from where he’s already headed for the door, eyes blazing.“Be reasonable _—_ if they’re officially here on behalf of Durmstrang—”

“That’s what I _said_ —”

“Then there’s probably nothing Dumbledore can do about it because they'll be considered foreign government dignitaries by the Ministry!”

“What, so he’s just going to let _known_ Grindelwald spies slink around the castle doing Merlin knows what?”

“Don’t just say that—Bellatrix is horrid, yes, but there’s absolutely no evidence she’s a Grindelwald spy, and you know Dumbledore has never confirmed that Snape is one.”

“Sirius and Remus are both convinced he is,” Harry bites out, eyes narrowed.

“Well, they aren’t exactly the most unbiased of people with respect to Bellatrix and Snape, are they?Especially Sirius.”

“ _It doesn’t make them wrong!_ ”

Hermione flinches back, shocked at the sudden fury in his tone.He hasn’t shouted at her like this since the Umbridge days.

“…I’m still going to Dumbledore,” Harry says, and the next bit comes out as a snarl: “Don’t bother coming with me, since you think I’m being so _unreasonable_.”

“Harry, wait!”

But he has already turned around and marched out the door, slamming it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i) You’re all going to laugh, but in an effort to figure out how Hermione is pronounced in French, I watched a good chunk of [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SAE-8_mAKBU), about a French “32-gun Concorde-class frigate fitted for 12-pounder guns” called Hermione because I’d previously never actually heard a French person say the name before. In a similar vein, for last chapter I spent about half an hour researching the state of the academic literature on both global warming and Chernobyl after-effects as of October 1996. (Aka: please tell me if certain details don’t ring true to you so I can fix them—I will be eternally grateful!)
> 
> (ii) Tom is a Parisian teenager in the 90s. He almost definitely would have smoked. If you don’t like that, then don’t worry; Harry doesn’t, either!
> 
> (iii) Also, alternative chapter summary I considered: in which Severus Snape unknowingly cockblocks Tom Riddle without even being present. [Tom at the end of the balcony scene: “wtf is wrong with you Harry never have I ever flirted so hard and not scored”]


	11. Chapter 10: November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: (1) two guys chat on a couch; (2) three kids chat in a library; and (3) four people chat in a pub. That's it. That's the whole chapter, folks.

10.1 Occlumency

“Hermione said she read you’re supposed to ‘clear your mind’ or something,” Harry starts, even though he has no idea what that means or how it could possibly be meant to work.If he could simply purge his mind of all his anxieties by wishing it, obviously he would.

In response, Sirius blinks twice, then frowns at Harry for long enough that he starts to wonder if he should worry.They are half-sprawled on the squashy sofa in Remus’s office while Remus runs a revision session for his O.W.L. students in the adjoining classroom.Every so often, a muted wave of delighted adolescent laughter drifts through the warded door.

“Er, Sirius?”

Sirius seems to collect himself, then runs a hand through his loose, thick hair.“Yeah, listen, Harry…thinking on it, I reckon that isn’t going to work so well for you.”

“What, so you’re saying I can’t learn Occlumency?”Why would Dumbledore even have suggested it in the first place, then?In an attempt to distract him from the fact that a Grindelwald spy and groupie are now wandering Hogwarts at their leisure?

Sirius snorts and lays an arm over the back of the sofa.“Nah, everyone can learn Occlumency to a degree, though it’s rare to find someone really good at it, the same way it’s hard to find a truly skilled Legilimens.Some just have a natural aptitude for it, and it’s nigh on impossible for the rest of us to completely block them out if they’re determined.But I meant that I don’t think ‘clear your mind’ is necessarily the correct approach for you.” 

“Yeah?How come?”

“Let’s just call it an instinct.That method works better for people like, say, Moony, who are more…cool-headed.”

“So the opposite of you, you mean?”

“Hey.It takes one to know one, pup.”He reaches out to tousle Harry’s hair, but Harry, used to the telltale gleam in his eye, dodges out of the way.Sirius misses, laughs sharply, and reaches down with his other hand to get Harry in the side, fingers wriggling— _tickling_.

“Wh-what, no, wait—Sirius!” Harry squeaks.He tries to jerk out of the way, but it’s difficult when the sudden, merciless onslaught has him doubled over, laughing and out of breath.They scuffle for a moment, one snickering and the other gasping out guffaws, before Harry manages to squirm out of Sirius’s hold.He darts into the opposite corner of the sofa, stretches his legs out, and levers his feet up against Sirius’s thigh and side so that his grabbing hands can’t reach.

“Truce, truce!” Harry rasps, clutching at his heaving chest and still half-laughing.“Moony will come yell at us for disrupting his O.W.L. revision if we’re too loud.”

Sirius pauses, and his eyes slide over to the closed office door, a sheepish expression slipping over his features for a split second before he runs a hand through his hair and huffs out a short laugh.

“Good point.I’ll end up banished to the couch tonight if I’m not careful,” he concedes, then clears his throat.“Right, where were we?”

“You’re meant to be teaching me Occlumency because Dumbledore’s worried about Grindelwald finding the Invisibility Cloak through my thoughts during the tournament,” Harry deadpans dutifully.“And you think I’ll be pants at it.”

Sirius chuckles at that.“I was pants at clearing my mind, too.The Mind Arts can be a tricky thing, as it turns out.My instructor had to teach me a different way from everyone else when it became clear the traditional methods weren’t getting me anywhere.”

“In spy school, you mean?”

“Yes, in super-secret spy school,” Sirius confirms with a completely straight face, “where they taught us all sorts of spooky spook secrets to use against the evil Dark wizards.”

Harry rolls his eyes.His godfathers have always been irritatingly tight-lipped about anything to do with their time working with the mysterious Department of Magical Intelligence and Counter-Intelligence and how that related to their work for Dumbledore in the Order of the Phoenix. 

“So can I learn or not?” he asks, tone tipping dangerously close to whinging.

“Ah, yes.Well.We should probably be serious about this.Because of the Dark Lord and all.”

“ _You_ started the tickling.”

Sirius, unsurprisingly, chooses not to dignify that with a response.He leans back, gaze drifting towards the ceiling, a hand running lazily over his chin.“It works for me to find a moment of peace to anchor my mind.”

Harry furrows his brows.“A moment of _peace_?While I'm trying to guard against a Dark wizard poking into my brain with magic?Yeah, no offense, Sirius, but I can see why Moony’s the one Dumbledore employed and not you.”

Sirius shoots him a dirty look.“Let me finish.It’s just the starting point.Another way to get to ‘clearing’ your mind, if you will.So for example, I like to imagine what it’s like to be Padfoot, lying by the fire in this office, or else maybe the feeling from running wild under the full moon.”

“…So basically, you imagine being in your Animagus form.”This seems unfair; it isn’t as if Harry can just change into a dog when his emotions overwhelm him.

“Well, for me, yeah, but for you…”He leans back, fingers running over his lightly stubbled jaw.“How about flying?It approaches the Padfoot feeling, but the difference for me is that Padfoot’s mindset is easier, less complicated, which helps me get into that peaceful mindset.But I’m also nowhere near as good a flyer as you, and you’re damn focused when you get on a broom.It could work.”

“You’re almost making it sound like the sort of mindset I need to get into to produce a Patronus.”It strikes Harry that this would be the complete opposite of ‘clearing’ his mind.

“That’s not a bad comparison, but I’d caution against thinking about it like that.”Sirius pauses, seeming to collect his words — a rarity for him. 

“Look at it this way.Occlumency is ultimately about shielding your thoughts.The most effective way for most people to do that is to empty their minds of thoughts completely—so that whoever is trying to get in meets with blankness, and that blankness then effectively functions as a shield.”He pauses to make sure Harry is following.Harry nods for him to go on.

“For some of us, though, that sort of emptiness is difficult to achieve.If you can imagine your mind as a room full of furniture and objects, it’s like this: clearing your mind would be akin to moving all the clutter out so that an intruder doesn’t have anything to go after when they try to pry.Focusing on that feeling of peace or calm is like filling the room up with only one thing, so much so that it’s useless for the intruder to even try to get in.

“…Is any of this making sense?Sorry, Moony’s always been the better out of the two of us at explaining things, but Dumbledore thinks I’m better suited to teach you for this.”

Harry leans back, lifting up his socked feet so he can prop them in Sirius’s lap.“I think I get the analogy.So it is sort of like casting a Patronus Charm, but focusing on a different sort of feeling.”He casts his mind back to the feeling of being on his broom, chasing down the Snitch during that match against Hufflepuff, the way the colors around him blurred and the Snitch stood out, glittering gold, and how he felt almost as if things around him were happening in slow motion.Is that the feeling he needs to try to recreate for Occlumency?

“Well,” says Sirius after a few moments of silence.“We should probably just try it; neither of us is really the type to get anywhere by thinking things through.”

“So you’re just going to, what?Cast a spell on me to read my mind?”It isn’t that Harry doesn’t trust Sirius, but there are definitely thoughts in his head he doesn’t want to share with his godfather.

Sirius shrugs.“That’s about the shape of it.But I’m not a very good Legilimens to begin with, and I promise I won’t make any attempts to pry beyond your surface thoughts when I come in.”

“You’re acting like it’s a sure bet that I won’t be able to block you,” Harry complains.

“I don’t think anyone succeeds on the first try, Harry.”Sirius smiles, then stands up and draws his wand out of its holster in a smooth, practiced movement; Harry follows suit.“But maybe you’ll show us all up, eh?Take your time, and tell me when you think you’re ready.”

Harry settles and closes his eyes, trying to focus on that feeling of freedom and total, focused, tranquility from flying his Firebolt at full speed. It doesn't work for conjuring a strong-enough Patronus, but this isn’t the right ‘emotion’ for that anyway, is it?The wood of the broom is smooth underneath his fingertips; the wind howling in his ears, whipping through his hair; and the Snitch glimmering straight ahead.The world around him exists only in patches of color, grass-green beneath and sky-blue above, a perfect bubble.

“Okay.”

“Here I come, Harry. _Legilimens._ ”

Harry feels the change like something physical.That bubble—that perfect feeling he’s trying to hold onto pulses and shifts all of a sudden, as if some sort of disturbance from outside has displaced all the air around him, warping his surroundings.The green of the grass below bleeds into the blue of the sky above, and the gold of the Snitch wavers, dulls.

Disjointed snapshots of his day start to rise up—asking Dean to pass the salt at breakfast earlier today; blinking blearily through Professor Babbling scrawling esoteric hieroglyphs on the board during Ancient Runes; Riddle’s fingers brushing his on their way towards the pitcher of cream at lunch; Ron turning his nose up and sitting with Seamus during Transfiguration…

Harry gasps as if coming up for air after being shoved underwater, rapidly blinking flowering dark spots out of his eyes.He’s still in Moony’s plain old office, squashy teal couch behind him and horrifically neat desk to his right.Sirius is watching him a little oddly, rolling his wand back and forth between thumb and middle finger.

“What?” Harry says, self-conscious.

“…Nothing.You did good for a first round.I could tell you felt the intrusion enough to push back.”

“You still saw all that though, right?Those memories from today?”He fidgets with his sleeve; he isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Sirius sighs and runs a hand over his forehead.“Yeah, I did…I know I said I wouldn’t pry into your thoughts, but still, there pretty much isn’t a way to practice Occlumency without some memories leaking out.But I promise not poke around in your head or ask about anything I see unless it really worries me.”

Harry hesitates a moment.“Is Grindelwald one of those natural Legilimenses who are impossible to block out?”From the sound of things, even if Harry _does_ manage to learn some basic Occlumency in these three weeks before Grindelwald arrives for the tournament, Harry won’t be able to effectively shield his thoughts anyway.Is there even a point to this exercise?

“According to Dumbledore, no, but given how accomplished a wizard he is anyway, he’ll still be a force to be reckoned with.But not unblockable.”

“…Were you ever Legilimized by him?” Harry asks quietly. _During the eight long years you were held prisoner in Nurmengard_ , he doesn’t say.

Sirius goes quiet for a long moment, and Harry is sure he’s pushed too hard.But at length, Sirius heaves a great sighs and admits, “Yes, I was.And no, it wasn’t pleasant.Nonconsensual Legilimency hardly ever is, especially for those with Occlumency training.”

Harry looks down at his hands, his chest burning hot and indignant when he thinks about the way Dumbledore brushed him off the previous evening, when he’d stormed into the headmaster’s circular office to (mostly politely) ask about Bellatrix and Snape being at Hogwarts.Dumbledore, of course, had continued to refuse, in that placid, unflappable way of his, to give Harry any more information on what would happen if Grindelwald were to find out about the Invisibility Cloak or why he was just letting Grindelwald’s people overrun his school. 

Sirius tosses him a wry grin.“You’re wondering if Dumbledore’s just trying to distract you from the fact he isn’t letting you join the Order.”

Harry jerks his head up to squint at Sirius.“Were you Legilimizing me just now?”

Sirius snorts. “No.You know stoicism isn’t really your strong point, right?”

Harry rolls his eyes and most certainly does not scowl, because that would be juvenile.

“Grindelwald may be powerful, but the extent of the Legilimency he can use against you is limited unless he raises his wand and recites the incantation.He wouldn’t risk that while he’s nominally here in a diplomatic capacity and has his political charade with the Ministry to play at.So if we can get you to a point where you can block out wandless attempts, then we’ll be in good shape.”

Harry tightens his grip on his wand, his knuckles whitening.

“Again?” Sirius asks softly.

Harry looks up, meets Sirius’s grave eyes, and nods.“Again.”

10.2 Reciprocation

It quickly becomes clear, in the following couple of days during which Harry and Hermione pore over their stacks of Muggle newspapers in any part of the castle with sufficient surface area, that they’re going to need Ron’s help if they want any hope of getting anywhere in the case of Grindelwald’s suspected attack on Muggles.

“Does a loony housewife claiming her neighbors were abducted by aliens in a banana-shaped UFO sound like a Ministry-invented excuse to you or just plain old Muggle conspiracy theorizing?” Harry asks, dubiously skimming through a paper from a town called Nether Wallop.If there’s anything looking through all these newspapers is teaching him, it is that Little Whinging is just the tip of a very large iceberg of seriously odd Muggle town names in Great Britain.

“Could be either…” Hermione replies, visibly holding back a yawn.They’ve been scouring the papers for hours at this point, and it’s almost curfew; Madam Pince will be coming around to shoo them out of the library soon.“I want to say that they’d never explain away confirmed Muggle deaths as mere disappearances, but with this government… Oh, Harry, can’t you just, I don’t know, apologize to Ron or something so we can all just move past this?”

“What the hell am I meant to be apologizing for?I never did anything!” Harry retorts immediately.“It’s him who should apologize for being such a tosser.”

“But you _know_ how he must be feeling about all this—”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I should say anything to him when I did nothing wrong.” 

The entire situation is completely daft.Yes, Harry does understand that it sometimes isn’t easy to be Ron, who exists forever in the shadow of his brothers and, occasionally, in Harry’s, too.But it certainly isn’t _Harry’s_ fault that trouble likes to find him.“And it’s not just me; you’ve been giving him crap about Lavender since before this whole tournament thing.”

Hermione’s face goes curiously blank, and… Merlin, that’s scary.Hermione has always been like Harry in this—every worry, every disappointment she ever feels always writ large on her face.

“…Hermione?” he ventures very, very carefully.

“I’m not jealous over Lavender.”

“…Come again?”

“I’m _not_ jealous over Lavender,” Hermione repeats fiercely, and a little nastily. 

Harry just raises his eyebrows at her.

“Okay, fine, maybe I was, but…”

“No, you definitely were, Hermione.”Hermione shoots him a dirty look, and Harry pauses then, thinking that maybe she has, in fact, seemed more level-headed whenever they’ve passed Ron and Lavender snogging lately.“So you’re saying… you’re not anymore?” 

She huffs, crossing her arms across her chest in a thoroughly Hermione-esque gesture before then sighing and burying her face in her hands and muttering, her voice muffled, “Oh, I don’t know.It’s not… _hostile_ right now, in any case.I don’t think.”She peeks up at Harry through a crack between her fingers.

“Not hostile because you haven’t spoken to each other in about a month,” Harry mutters.

“No, it’s more… I think he’s going to tire of Lavender soon.”

“He is?What makes you think that?”Harry thinks back to when he last saw Ron and Lavender, during the D.A. meeting only a few hours ago, the way they were wrapped around each other, almost as if intentionally putting themselves up on display.He has his doubts about either of them losing interest any time soon, but to be fair, Hermione has always been better at reading this kind of thing.

“Because I’ve been paying attention, Harry.Honestly.Just because the two of you are determined to pretend the other doesn’t exist despite sleeping _right next to each other_ in the dormitory doesn’t mean the rest of us are that immature.”

Harry isn’t sure it’s particularly wise to ask the next question, but it isn’t exactly as if anyone’s ever accused him of properly belonging in Ravenclaw.“So you don’t, you know…”

“I don’t _what,_ Harry?”It’s clear from the light of challenge in Hermione’s eyes that she knows exactly what Harry is hesitating to put into words and refuses to be the one to voice it.

…Which is all right, really, isn’t it? 

“Okay, fine, topic closed, and we can just move on and pretend nothing ever was weird there.Happy?”

Hermione drops her hands and beams.“Yes!I’ll sit with him in Potions tomorrow, and I’ll try to talk him round about the whole thing with you and the Goblet of Fire.Oh, Harry, it’s really been awful these past few weeks without him.” 

She looks so happy about this that Harry almost feels bad for continuing to be upset with Ron —until he remembers that, actually, he had nothing to do with that original disagreement between Ron and Hermione; that had been all her.Sneaky of her, to make it seem like she was waiting for _Harry’s_ permission to start being civil to Ron again.

“Right.So…” he looks forlornly at the stacks of Muggle newspapers and multicolored battalion of Hermione’s sticky-notes lining their library table. 

Hermione shoves another paper under his nose.“Come on, Harry, they aren’t going to read themselves.If we can figure out what sort of magical artifact Grindelwald was after, we can start to figure out why he wants your cloak.”

They have barely been reading for even three minutes when Harry feels the heat of someone’s breath against his ear.It is the only reason he doesn’t shoot ten feet into the air when Tom Riddle asks in a low baritone, “Are those Muggle newspapers you’re reading, Harry?”

He does go totally stiff, though, and scoots a foot away, the legs of his chair screeching against the library’s polished mahogany floors.“What is it with you and sneaking up on people?Can’t you just say hello, like a normal person?”

Riddle smiles and sits down, bringing his chair close enough that his elbow brushes Harry’s.“Hello, Harry, Hermione.”

“Riddle.”Hermione’s smile has taken on a rather fixed quality—she doesn’t precisely approve of Riddle, Harry knows, but her demeanor towards him has been distinctly chilly lately, even for her.

“There’s no need to be so formal, really; you should call me Tom.We’ve known each other for over a month.”

Harry can think of nothing to say to that that isn’t outright rude, so he stays quiet while Hermione, generally the politer and more eager to please of the two of them, says hesitantly, “Well, all right, if you insist… Tom.”

A beat of silence.Harry shifts his elbow so that he and Riddle are no longer accidentally touching.He scrambles for something to say.

“You missed the DA this afternoon,” he blurts out (and sincerely hopes that it isn’t petulance he detects in his own tone).“Are you not going to come anymore?”He can feel Hermione’s unimpressed stare boring into the side of his head.He ignores it.

“Yes, I’m afraid I’ll be unavailable in the afternoons until after the first task; the tutor Madame Maxime hired for me and Fleur has been rather demanding of our time.”

“You mean Bellatrix Lestrange,” Harry accuses.

“Yes, I do mean her,” Riddle confirms, turning towards him.His lower leg presses up against Harry’s in a warm, hard line.Harry jerks his leg away.

“Would you like to join us?I’m sure Bella wouldn’t mind.”

“You call her _Bella_?” Hermione asks, looking horrified.

“Yes.So does Fleur.She asked us to herself.”Riddle smiles, as if sharing a secret.

“What kinds of things is she teaching you?” Harry asks, shoving away the newspaper he’s holding; he’s long abandoned all pretense of reading it, anyway.

Riddle smiles.“All sorts of different types of magic. She’s done a fair amount of traveling across the Continent, as I’m sure you know, so there’s quite a lot for us to learn from her.Of course, given that we don’t know what the first task will consist of, it’s difficult to prepare effectively.”

“You’re not even going to deny that this is flagrant cheating, in contravention of tournament rules?” Hermione both sounds and looks scandalized.

“Karkaroff hired Snape, and Maxime hired Lestrange,” Riddle replies easily.“I can’t help but notice that Dumbledore is the odd one out here, in that he didn’t think to do the same for his Hogwarts champions.Perhaps he thinks your DA activities will be sufficient to carry you through the tasks.”He smirks.

“ _Dumbledore_ doesn’t believe in cheating,” Harry retorts immediately.“We can get by on our own merit, unlike you.”He looks to Hermione for back-up, but her eyes are on Riddle, a small crease between her brows.

“Or…perhaps you’re simply looking for an excuse to fall back on when you underperform, hm?”Riddle beams, dazzling.Then, before Harry has time to squawk out an indignant reply, he gestures to the newsprint littering their library table.“So, why are you reading all these Muggle newspapers, then?” 

Does he have to be so damn _nosy_ , Harry wonders.He can feel the skin beneath his left eye twitching. 

“None of your business,” he grits out as Hermione says, “Research.”He shoots her a dirty look and tries to kick her ankle under the table but misses, instead crushing his toes against the unforgiving wood of a table leg.Smiling bravely against his own watering eyes, Harry holds Riddle’s gaze.

The corners of Riddle’s smile curve sharp, like he’s spotted a chink or two (or a thousand) in Harry’s otherwise impenetrable armor.“Research?I wasn’t aware either of you took Muggle Studies.”

“We don’t.”

“So for what reason could you possibly be looking through a paper from…” he picks one up at random, “Great Snoring, Norfolk?And this isn’t even recent; it’s from…” he trails off, his expression wiping itself clean for a split second before slipping seamlessly back into one of skeptical derision, “ages ago.” 

Hermione doesn’t seem to notice because she says, “We’re, er, looking into strange occurrences in small Muggle villages and towns.”

“Strange occurrences?” Riddle sets the Great Snoring Mirror down, then runs a pale hand over the rest of the papers scattered over the table.“These are all from the same two days.Whatever for?”

“A…a research project for Sirius,” Harry invents wildly.He needs to get Riddle talking somehow, because it’s clear he recognizes that weekend as significant for some reason.He’d been wearing a traveling cloak and skulking about Hogsmeade, discussing some sort of ‘favor’ with Malfoy mere hours before the attack happened. 

Riddle turns to him, brows raised over dark eyes, so Harry adds, “He, ah, wants to know about Muggle conspiracy theories in small towns!So Hermione and I are looking into it for him.You should join us!”

Hermione’s foot connects sharply with Harry’s shin—her under-table aim has always been far superior to Harry’s—but Harry doesn’t break eye contact with Riddle, whose brows slowly rise all the way up.

“Right.”He picks up another paper to flip through: the Wetwang Warbler.“Any reason your adoptive father would be interested in something like that?”

“I dunno—he’s the layabout heir to an old Pureblood line; he does as he pleases.Likes to piss off his blood supremacist relatives by blasting Muggle rock music from the rooftop of their ancestral home.And he’s, er, trying to build a reputation for himself as an eccentric.”From across the table, Hermione makes a face that says very clearly, _Harry, have you lost your mind_.

He turns back to Riddle.“What’s it to you whether we read Muggle newspapers?”

Riddle shrugs and exchanges the Wetwang Warbler, currently labeled ‘possibly dodgy’ with a pink sticky note, for a paper from their ‘not yet read’ stack.“It’s an unusual activity to be spending a Wednesday evening doing when you have a Defence test first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I’ve revised plenty, and I’m good at Defence,” Harry says shortly, and snatches the paper—the Great Hangleton Herald—from Riddle so he can shove it back into its proper pile.Hermione will complain later if her careful organization scheme is in any way disturbed.“Take one from that stack instead,” he says, pointing.“Those are the ones we haven’t looked through yet.”

“What precisely are you looking for?Stories about Muggle conspiracy theories?”Riddle’s fingers, long and pale, trace out absent little patterns against the wooden grain of the library table.

Harry considers his answer carefully before opening his mouth: “Anything that seems like it might be the work of the Ministry covering up a magic incident in a Muggle area.”That should pique Riddle’s interest if he really did have something to do with the attack on the Muggle village, but it’s probably still ambiguous enough to keep him guessing at their motives.Probably.

Riddle’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes take on a hungry glint as he leans in, his voice dripping dark like chocolate.“And what will you do for me, Harry, if I help you with this…research project of yours?”

Harry’s brain must short-circuit for a moment, because suddenly Hermione’s kicking him under the table again.He suspects he’s going to have an awful bruise there tomorrow morning.

“I, er…” he swallows.Riddle’s eyes are so, so dark, the light reflecting off his cheekbones just so.

“Why should Harry need to do anything for you?” Hermione’s voice rings out, loud and clear.Harry whips his head towards her, as if jolted awake.“You could always help us out of the goodness of your heart…Tom.”She adds his name belatedly, as if it feels wrong on her tongue.

Riddle straightens up and turns to face her, the movement just so happening to press his knee up against Harry’s thigh.He leans his chin on his left hand to watch Hermione through half-lidded eyes, even as his right drops under the table to rest, warm and heavy, on Harry’s knee. 

Harry is pretty sure he’s stopped thinking—possibly stopped breathing.He has no idea what his face is doing, but it’s probably nothing good, given the way Hermione’s lips are pursed.

“I’m simply saying it would be polite, Hermione,” Riddle says sweetly, his thumb pressing a firm trail up the side of Harry’s kneecap where the skin is thinnest, “if he were to in some manner…reciprocate.”

Harry is up and out of his chair so quickly he nearly knocks over the ‘definitely dodgy’ newspaper stack. 

“Harry?”Hermione’s eyes widen in concern before narrowing and darting suspiciously to Riddle, who smiles angelically at her.

“Ihavetogonow,” Harry squeaks, and, swiping up his schoolbag, bolts out of the library.

His steps don’t slow until he makes it through the Fat Lady’s portrait hole, and even then, he doesn’t stop until he’s up the stairs and into the boys’ dormitory, curtains drawn around his bed.He collapses into his duvet, those last few moments in the library playing over and over without his permission in his mind: Riddle’s knee pressing into his thigh, Riddle’s smiling voice just inches from his lips, Riddle’s hand splayed over his leg, Riddle’s thumb stroking against his knee through the fabric of his trousers…

And…horribly, damningly, Harry _misses_ it — feels bereft now, as if he’s left some integral part of himself behind, back at the little table between the stacks.Of course, it has nothing to do with the table in particular, but…He runs his own fingers lightly back over the curve of his knee, remembering the casual pressure of Riddle’s hand.

 _“Stop it_ ,” he groans to himself, burying his face in his pillow.

He rakes his hands haphazardly back and forth through his hair, trying to rid his mind of the images, of the way he imagines he can still feel Riddle’s heat through those two points of contact on his leg, but the more he tries to think of something—anything—else, the more he hears Riddle’s low, lilting voice, sees his dark, all-consuming eyes.Harry turns onto his back and smashes his pillow over his head, as if that will block out the onslaught of his memory and imagination.

This is how Hermione finds him some ten minutes later, fury and concern clearly warring within her when she wrenches open Harry’s curtains.

“Harry!Are you all right?What happened?Did Rid—?”

Harry stands up immediately to slap a hand over her mouth.“Hermione, _not so loud_ ,” he hisses, pulling her onto his bed and shutting the curtain behind her—then pauses, thinks better of it, and draws the curtain wide open so that it’s obvious they’re both fully clothed and having a perfectly innocent conversation.

There.Absolutely no room for misinterpretation in case anyone walks in.

“Harry.”

“What?”

Hermione smacks him on the shoulder.

“Everything’s fine!”He even manages to successfully hold her gaze as he says it.

“No, it isn’t.What just happened in the library?What made you run off like that?”

“Nothing!”

Hermione’s eyes narrow, her fingers tapping out an impatient rhythm against her crossed arms.

Harry knows that his eyes are too wide, his smile too forced.His face is heating up, but he swallows down the embarrassment and stubbornly meets her eyes.They stare at each other for a few long moments, until Hermione sighs, her shoulders sagging.

“Fine, Harry.But I don’t like this.I really don’t think you should spend so much time with him.”

Harry shrugs, looking away.His eyes land on an exhausted-looking Neville dragging himself in through the doorway.Hermione’s lips thin, and she sighs again, running her hands through her bushy hair.

“All right, I won’t say any more on this, Harry.But please be careful.”Harry nods jerkily at her.

Whatever this is, whatever weird, messed-up flirting Riddle thinks he’s pulling off—which he _isn’t_ pulling off, because Harry would _never_ —he can handle it.

10.3 Rubeus Hagrid

The November Hogsmeade visit rolls around, and Harry is still no closer to figuring out whether or not he has a chance of living through the first task, now a scant seven days away. 

His thrice-weekly Occlumency sessions with Sirius have been going okay — he can block Sirius out to a certain degree now — but have been made slightly awkward by Sirius’s insistence at teaching Harry extra magic in preparation for the first task. 

Harry, of course, initially refused on principle.He and Cedric had a stilted conversation on the question of tutors earlier in the month and decided that they agreed with Dumbledore; they would get through without cheating.But as the first task draws nearer, Harry finds himself questioning the wisdom of this decision.It does not help that Riddle and Delacour have more often than not been showing up to dinner cut and bruised, courtesy of Bellatrix Lestrange, or that Malfoy and Krum just look constantly exhausted.Harry doesn’t even want to imagine what sort of extra work Snape has been setting them.If Maxime and Karkaroff think this level of preparation is necessary for their students, then why doesn’t Dumbledore do the same?

Maybe it’s time for him to sit Cedric down so that they can reassess; he’s headed to meet him and Krum at the sporting goods shop on the High Street anyway. 

“Harry!Harry Potter!”

Harry turns to find the largest, tallest man he’s ever laid eyes upon waving him down.The stranger is about twice Harry’s own height, and perhaps four or five Harrys wide; he would make a good match for Madame Maxime of Beauxbâtons.And next to him, barely waist-high, are Ron and Hermione, who have somehow managed to make up sufficiently such that Hermione now evenly splits her time between Ron and Harry.Hermione looks slightly panicked, her eyes darting between Harry and Ron while Ron pointedly refuses to meet Harry’s eye.Harry hesitates, but he doesn’t see any way out of this without coming across as outright rude, so he makes his way over. 

“Er, yeah, that’s me,” he greets awkwardly, stopping a couple of feet away so that he doesn’t have to crane his neck all the way back to meet the man’s eye.

“Hi, Harry!” Hermione says quickly, looking a little desperately from him to Ron, who, his ears distinctly pink, is obstinately staring at a point just above Harry’s head.She swallows, then continues doggedly, “This is Rubeus Hagrid, Charlie’s dragon-taming mentor we mentioned to you before—we met him at the Burrow that summer you were off on holiday with Sirius and Remus in Mauritius.”

“Harry Potter!” Rubeus Hagrid cries jubilantly. It should be strange to see someone so large look so starry-eyed, but somehow, the way the man’s beetle-black eyes are crinkled to tiny half-moons and the way his grin is split wide enough to wrinkle up his whole face have Harry smiling back.“S’wonderful teh finally meet yeh!I’ve bin waitin’ years now — years, I tell yeh,” and he claps Harry on the back heartily enough to send him stumbling forward, nearly tripping. 

Hermione looks between all of them again.“W-well, Mr. Hagrid, it really was lovely to see you again, but Ron and I really should get going; we—”

“What, leavin’ already?Don’ be ridiculous!You haven't properly introduced young Harry here to me yet!Tell yeh what, I’ve got some time ‘fore I’m meant ter go say hi ter Dumbledore — great man, he is, got me my fers’ job when not many were willin’ to a chance on me.I’ll treat you kids ter a round o’ Butterbeer at Rosmerta’s.I ought teh drop by her place teh say ‘hi’ anyhow.”

“But—” Hermione doesn’t get a chance to voice her protest, though, because ‘Mr. Hagrid’ is already ushering them all towards the Three Broomsticks with a wide sweep of his arm.

And so Harry finds himself sat awkwardly in a small booth with Ron, Hermione sandwiched between them, while Rubeus Hagrid sets three tankards of Butterbeer before them and sits down with an entire pitcher of oak-matured mead for himself.

“Oh, it’s a pleasure, Harry.But I haven’t properly introduced meself yet, have I now?Rubeus Hagrid.I’m a dragon tamer now — work with Ron here’s brother Charlie, like Hermione said — but I taught yer dad an’ his mates Care o’ Magical Creatures fer a coupl’a years back in the day.Wonderful man, he were — got along with the Hippogriffs better’n anyone.Yeh look jes’ like him, ‘course, but yeh’ve yer mother’s eyes.”

Harry blinks up at Rubeus Hagrid, unsure of what to say; for all he has been greeted this way growing up, he has never quite figured out how best to respond to the people who tell him he looks just like his parents.

“I expect yeh hear that often enough, though, eh?”Rubeus Hagrid’s grin turns a little wry, and Harry smiles weakly in response.

“Yeah, but it’s fine,” he replies diplomatically.“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hagrid.”

“Oh, none o’ that from you — that goes fer you, too, Hermione.Everyone just calls me Hagrid.”He takes a generous swill of his drink.

“What brings you here from Romania, Hagrid?” Hermione asks.

“Oh, me?I’m jes’ comin’ by ter say ‘hello’ ter my old colleagues, see how the school’s doin’, you know.Nuthin’ else.”Hagrid hesitates, his eyes flickering to Harry for a second, his face reddening ever so slightly.

“So if you taught my dad, you must also have taught Sirius and Remus?” Harry asks.

“Tha’s right.Lupin was one o’ my best, but Black an’ Potter, lemme tell yeh, worst pair o’ troublemakers I ever set eyes on.Brilliant, ‘course, but I couldn’t keep ‘em away from my Blast-Ended Skrewts; very nearly got me fired when they somehow got one into Severus Snape’s trunk righ’ before the summer hols.”

Harry grins; he has no idea what a Blast-Ended Skrewt is, but it sounds like a suitably awful thing for his dad and Sirius to have tried to inflict on Snape.“I bet they got up to all sorts of stuff back when they were students.Sirius and Remus don't even tell me the half of it.”

“Oh, I’ve got stories about those boys fer days, lemme tell yeh.”Hagrid barks a deep belly laugh and then starts to regale them with stories about the Marauders’ misadventures in his Care of Magical Creatures class in the two years during which he had taught it.These include: Sirius once shoving a handful of flobberworms down James’s robes; a litter of Crup puppies refusing to stop following Remus around no matter how the rest of the class tried to bribe them with treats; and Sirius setting a Niffler loose in the Slytherin dormitory (a problem which required the combined efforts of Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Hagrid to solve).He starts to say Wormtail’s name at some point but abruptly cuts himself off, a dirty look crossing his face.

“I’m sorry they’re gone, Harry,” Hagrid says, voice falling surprisingly soft for such a large man.“Didn’t know yer mum that well, as I never taught ‘er or worked with ‘er in the Order, but—”

“You worked for Dumbledore in the Order?” Harry asks. 

“Er—” Hagrid’s mouth shuts abruptly, as if suddenly realizing that he has said too much.“Never you mind,” he says gruffly.“I shouldn’t’ve said that.Ferget I said that.It was a long time ago now.”His eyes dart shiftily around the pub.

Then he takes a hearty swill of his mead and continues, “But tell me more ‘bout yerself, Harry.I was meant to meet yeh at the Weasleys’ celebration for Charlie las’ year, ‘course, but they told me yeh were off on holiday somewhere with Black and Lupin or summat, yeah?An’ you a champion in the Triwizard Tournament.I’d say yer mum an’ dad would’a been proud .”

Harry swears he can hear Ron tense up on Hermione’s other side; he resolutely ignores it.“Yeah, but they haven’t told us much about it, to be honest,” he replies.Then, hoping that none of the fear and uncertainty he feels regarding the whole thing bleeds out into his voice, he adds, “The headmasters at Durmstrang and Beauxbâtons have hired extra tutors for their champions, but that seems a little silly, given that we don’t know what any of the tasks will consist of yet.”

For a moment, Harry imagines that Hagrid’s complexion, already florid from his almost-empty pitcher of mead, reddens further, but it’s hard to tell in the poor pub lighting.“Not told yeh a thing?”

“Er, no, it’s meant to be a test of courage, so… it’s a complete surprise.”

“Nuthin’ at all?”Hagrid suddenly pales.

“Er, Hagrid?” Hermione says, “Are you feeling quite all right?”

“I—I, yeah, fine, I’m great, me.Listen, I’d, er, love ter stay ’n chat, but it’s gettin’ late, an’ I better be gettin’ back ter Dumbledore, see.”

Harry turns to share a look with Hermione, only to find her looking at Ron again.

“Oh, look at the time!” Hagrid says then, “been here much too long!I’ll, er, see yeh ‘round, Harry, yeah?Great ter meet yeh,” he says, stands up, and leaves.Just like that.

Harry stares.“I mean, he was nice, but… what was that?” he says, turning to Hermione, who looks equally bewildered.

They sit there dumbly for a moment, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.

“Well, all right, I should get going,” Harry mutters, carefully still not looking at Ron, who hasn’t said a word the entire time.He makes to step away from their booth.

“Harry, wait,” Ron croaks.

Harry freezes and turns around.Ron is simply sitting there, eyes wide and face completely ashen, as if he has just received the worst news of his life.They haven’t spoken in over a month.

Harry raises an eyebrow.Ron opens his mouth as if to say something but is apparently unable to get the words out.Patience running thin, Harry rolls his eyes, turns on his heel, and trudges out of the pub. 

Hagrid is still doing up his cloak outside, but he doesn’t notice Harry, instead muttering distractedly to himself under his breath, saying, “I should not have said that in front ‘o them, I should _not_ have said that…”

Harry frowns but starts toward the High Street.He’s certainly late for Krum and Cedric now, but he doubts they’ll miss him much; they can talk Quidditch fine without his input.But as he’s about to turn in the direction of the sporting goods store, someone grabs his elbow.

Harry, expecting it to be Tom Riddle popping out of nowhere to surprise him, whirls around with a glare and jerks his arm back.But it’s only Ron again, still looking sincerely worried, though a little less pale.Hermione is right behind him.

“Okay, Ron, what is it?What do you want from me?”He meant to ask it coolly and levelly, but it comes out irritatingly testy, as if he’s looking for a fight — which he isn’t, not really.

“Yeah — I mean, no, just listen, mate, I—” Ron screws his eyes shut and bites his teeth down into his bottom lip as if psyching himself up to do something he deeply does not want to do.After a beat, Hermione elbows him hard in the ribs, and he winces.

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, looking between them.“If you have something to say, spit it out.”

“Look, I’m sorry I said all that stuff now, okay?You’re going to think I’m mental, but I just need you to hear me out.”He grabs Harry’s wrist and begins dragging them in the general direction Hagrid wandered off in.“D’you have the Invisibility Cloak on you?”

“What?You know what Dumbledore said about not using it!”He pulls his arm out of Ron’s grasp again.“What the hell are you on about?”

“Listen, mate, just trust me, this is an emergency you do need the cloak for,” Ron says urgently, his voice low, eyes flicking over to Hagrid’s ten-foot form, already moving away from them in the direction opposite the castle.“Charlie wrote Mum and Dad a few weeks back to say that he’d be able to come over for a few days around the middle of November.”

“…Okay?”

“And Hagrid is his boss — they work in the same team.Charlie says that all the teams of tamers have their own dragons that they’re responsible for, so it’s never the case that more than one team member leaves the reserve at the same time unless a bunch of the dragons died, or…”

Harry furrows his brows, still not quite following.“Or what?”

Ron swallows.“Or the dragons came with them.I reckon it’s dragons, Harry.They’re… they’ve set the first task to dragons.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me your thoughts -- comments, critiques, kudos, hellos, etc. -- feedback (especially concrit!) is always welcome =)


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